


The Colours in His Skin

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Refraction [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Backstory, Espionage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tattoos, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q would have liked to say he remembered the night he got the tattoo well. He would have liked to say the reason he was so fond of it was because it was the product of his own imagination, his thoughtfulness, his attempt at branding himself with his own unique identity. </p><p>But he’d be lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about something like this:
> 
>  **Bootsnblossoms:** WOW! Look at this [gorgeous piece of Tattooed!Q art](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/post/71644812377/as-requested-rivinaris-art-that-inspired-the) by Rivinari. I should write a mini fic, because, wow.
> 
>  **Kryptaria:** That *is* some inspiring art! Want a co-author?
> 
>  **Bootsnblossoms:** Heck yeah.
> 
>  **[CousinCecily](http://cousincecily.tumblr.com/)** , **[JennyBel75](http://jennybel75.tumblr.com/)** , and **[Mitaya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitaya/)** (Also known as the Beta/Enabler of Team of Awesome): Woohoo! Who needs a holiday vacation anyway?
> 
>  **Us** (A week, five 10-hour-straight evening writing marathon sessions, and 54K+ words later): Huh. That was a fun, brain-melting, wicked rabbit hole to fall into. Let's call it "Not a F*cking Mini Fill". Didn't we have lives somewhere around here, once?
> 
> Bootsnblossoms mostly wrote Q's perspective, and Kryptaria mostly wrote Bond's, but this was truly a deliciously fun team-writing experience. Hope you enjoy!

Bond grimaced to himself as he crossed the new Q Branch cubicle farm with long strides, staying two steps ahead of Tanner. At the far end of what had once been a London Underground station platform, he turned and headed up the steps to the Quartermaster’s office. “I achieved the mission objective,” he said smoothly. “Can we really afford to be picky about the details?”

He ducked out of the way of an incredibly well-muscled man carrying what appeared to be a giant LCD out the doorway. Without a backwards glance, he made his way over to where Q sat on a wheeled stool, attaching cables to a rack of what Bond eventually recognised as external hard drives. He was dressed blandly — horrifically, Bond thought — in a green cardigan and brown checked pants.

“Bond,” Tanner protested.

Before he could go any further, Bond interrupted, “The data was recovered, the mark was eliminated.” He walked over to Q’s desk and turned his most charming, confident smile on both Tanner and Q. “And I even managed to bring everything back in one piece,” he added. He set his Walther, radio, and micro-earwig on the desk.

“You blew up a diplomat’s car.” Tanner’s expression was certainly not approving, and Q hadn’t even looked up from whatever he was doing.

“Minor detail,” Bond protested. He glanced at Q to see his reaction, but it was as if Q didn’t care that Bond existed. Irritated, he continued: “The car was empty, and I needed the distraction.”

Finally Q spoke up, only to sardonically say, “Distractions. Lovely things to have, those.”

Bond shot a glare his way. “Are we distracting you, Quartermaster?”

Q closed his eyes, turned his face up to the ceiling, and sighed. “I’m a bit busy getting our equipment set up. I’ll have one of the technicians clean and tend to your gun in time for your next mission.”

“Busy? I’d say you look more bored,” Bond said, unable to resist the temptation of dragging Q into the argument and hopefully diverting Tanner.

“Bond,” Tanner protested, giving him an eloquent look that translated to _‘please do not irritate the staff’_.

With a little huff, Q said, “Yes, well. As you were.” He waved a hand at both Bond and Tanner — the look of irritation that flickered across Tanner’s face was priceless — and turned back to the hard drives. He peeled a printed label off a sheet of them and affixed it to the bottom row; it read _Pet projects server — do not touch_.

Bond rolled his eyes and looked to Tanner, wondering at his reaction. Q Branch had always warranted some indulgences, but to openly label something a pet project seemed to be pushing that tolerance.

Tanner was frowning, studying the back of Q’s head. When he caught Bond looking at him, he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a report for M. Bond, I’ll need your after action report by day’s end.” He turned on his heel and promptly left, heading for the lift that would take him back to the surface.

Q didn’t react at all.

Sighing to himself, Bond went to find an empty office where he could type up his report in peace.

 

~~~

 

Bond was an hour into his report, wondering how to gloss over his choice of the diplomat’s car as a distraction, when his mobile buzzed. “Bond,” he answered curtly, scrolling through a list of synonyms for _convenient_.

“Tanner needs to see you,” came Moneypenny’s voice.

“I’m not done with my report.”

“Irrelevant. You’ve got two minutes to get up here.”

Bond sighed and rang off, saving his work on the server instead of locally in case he needed to reference it in the upcoming conference. It wasn’t his fault that the diplomat in question drove a bloody Ferrari. If he hadn’t wanted the car to be a target, he should drive something anonymous, like a Ford. There were too many of those on the road these days.

Tanner’s new office shared a front room with M’s. Moneypenny sat guard outside both, and she gave Bond a stern look, pointing with her pen at Tanner’s door.

“You didn’t miss me?” Bond asked.

“I don’t miss,” she said.

Bond huffed in amusement and let himself into Tanner’s office. It was only marginally smaller than M’s; now that Mallory was in charge, Tanner wasn’t pretending false modesty as he had with the previous M. Then again, Mallory was a teddy bear to the old M’s grizzly ways. Tanner was probably trying to carve himself a little empire.

“I have a job for you,” Tanner said without any preliminaries. When he caught Bond looking at the drinks cupboard, he pointed at the chair opposite his desk. “A very sensitive one. You’ll want your wits about you.”

Bond frowned and took his seat. “I’m not done with my report. And we’re to be allotted three days’ recovery for every two weeks we’re in the field. I’m already planning my holiday,” he lied. The downtime between missions was a constant low-grade nightmare with too much time to think. After the 7/7 bombings in ’05, he’d spent seven solid months in the field with never more than a thirty-six hour turnaround time back in London before the psych staff had threatened to have him hospitalised and M brought up on labour law charges. Privately, Bond suspected those seven months were the only reason he hadn’t put a bullet in his brain, after Vesper.

“Cancel it.” Tanner’s hand moved under his desk, and Bond heard a loud magnetic _thunk_ from within the desk. A small drawer at the top of the desk opened. Tanner set his hand flat atop the drawer, and Bond saw a light flare under his palm, bright enough to throw hazy shadows on the ceiling.

A moment later, the hum of the ventilation system changed, and the exterior door locked. Bond tensed, recognising secure communications protocols — a cold room, as they’d started calling it, once the facilities crews had installed the last of the rerouted air ducts and accidentally froze out the executive offices. Until Tanner disengaged the system, the room would be absolutely isolated from all external communication, from bugs to high-sensitivity mics. Even his computer, networked to the servers somewhere in Q Branch, was rendered worthless for anything other than calculating maths or playing solitaire.

“Have you noticed anything odd with our new quartermaster’s behaviour?”

The question surprised him. “He’s as well socialised as any of the equipment handlers,” he said, diplomatically avoiding words like ‘recluse’ or ‘technophile’.

“Actually,” Tanner said gravely, “he’s got worse since he was promoted. After Silva, we can’t afford to have someone so talented in a potentially compromised state.”

“And?” Bond prompted.

“And we need you to handle it.”

Bond sat forward, resting his forearms on Tanner’s desk. “This isn’t a good place for misunderstanding, Tanner. Are you ordering me to kill the head of Q Branch?” he asked bluntly.

Tanner grimaced, but he didn’t shake his head. “Only if necessary, 007.”

 

~~~

 

With a sense of impatient disinterest, Q watched the tech mount the new screen to the wall in front his primary workstation. He fiddled with the cables snaking out of his laptop, wondering if his boredom was really so obvious that even a philistine like Bond had noticed.

Well, perhaps _boredom_ wasn’t exactly the right word. Restlessness, maybe? He’d been working for MI6 for a long time now — nearly ten years — and that which had initially brought him here was losing its hold over him. 

MI6 had promised him the world, the resources to hack it, and a very long leash. They’d offered him the chance at a clean slate, a clean record, and a place to belong. Ten years ago, he’d taken the offer without even thinking twice, and he hadn’t regretted it, until now. They’d had given him everything they promised, and more. They’d pulled him out of the gutter, cleaned him up, and given him all the tools (and sanctions) he wanted. No computer, no server was safe from his access. He’d been given free rein to hack everything from the personal computers of suspected terrorists to foreign military intelligence as long as he brought back useful information.

Even better, they had introduced him to his predecessor: the former Quartermaster, Major Boothroyd. Under the assigned codename ‘R’, he had thrived under the former Q’s tutelage. With Major Boothroyd’s engaging smile, his love of explosives and gadgetry, and a genius that kept even ‘R’ challenged and interested, those years had turned out to be the best decade of his life.

But now? His mentor was dead, killed in a blast by a man who’d also made a fool of him on his first day as Quartermaster. As the new Quartermaster, he now spent less than fifteen percent of his time in the R&D labs that he so loved. He was in charge of them now, yes, but that meant more paperwork and less tinkering. It also meant that his promised long-leash had been significantly shortened.

And, most telling of all, he had said something absolutely appalling when helping Bond and the former M escape Silva’s assassination attempt:

_What if the PM finds out?_

How far had he fallen, how skewed had his priorities become, that he _cared_ about what the prime minister would think if he was caught doing something unsanctioned?

Horrified, he’d gone home that night and thrown off his bland, hated office clothes to change into pyjama bottoms. He microwaved a meal that he didn’t taste, sat cross-legged on his bed, and gave himself over completely to following that night’s train of thought.

What if the prime minister found out? What would happen?

Would they demote him? Good luck. He hadn’t wanted to take over former-Q’s job anyway, as it basically left him at a career dead-end. Unless he wanted to be M (and he emphatically didn’t), there was nowhere else for him to go. Perhaps demotion wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. There might be embarrassment, but he supposed he could live with it.

They certainly couldn’t fire him. He was too much of a liability. They would eliminate him before they let him go. 

He could leave, he supposed. He was barely thirty, and far too young to be in a dead-end job that couldn’t hold his attention. He didn’t owe them anything anymore. He’d have to run from MI6, of course, but that could be interesting, too. How long could he evade the Double O agents who’d surely be dispatched to hunt him down? Probably for a very long time. They were all relics of an earlier age; even the youngest had no real understanding of just how powerful Q could be even with a cheap computer and public wifi.

Therein lay the crux of the issue. He had come to the attention of Boothroyd at a fairly young age, but was left to his own devices until he aged out of the foster care system. By then, he’d fallen into a bad crowd and got himself into a mountain of trouble that, while always easy to erase from public record, was starting to interfere with his ability to move freely in London. He and his friends — more like an adopted family of criminal miscreants — were attracting too much attention both from local criminal organisations and the Met.

And, as it turned out, MI6, who had been watching his exploits since he’d been twelve.

At eighteen, looking at the sort of criminal record that made him give serious thought to leaving the continent, MI6 had given him a new option. And not just anyone at MI6: he’d been brought before the old M and Major Boothroyd, a duo so formidable that for once, he’d kept his sharp tongue in check.

They’d offered him a way out of his permanent incarceration in the form of employment, but he was under no delusions that it was the only option they were considering. He was a genius criminal hacker with a knack for engineering explosives and no real ties to society. If he hadn’t accepted MI6’s offer, they would have eliminated him as a threat.

That potential threat quotient hadn’t disappeared simply because he’d spent the last ten years repaying his debt. He doubted they would let him leave, especially if his reason for resignation was _I’m bored_.

 

~~~

 

 _Edwards, Jack. Age 31_.

Bond would have guessed younger.

Perfect health, other than his vision. Two cases of pneumonia at age six and eleven. IQ tested at 168 at age ten. His MI6 intake test, based on a newer scale, listed him simply as 160+.

No named parents. Entered the foster care system as an infant, but was never adopted. Bounced from household to household — the longest stay was three years; the shortest, three days. Everything about him spoke of a troubled childhood, but he had no criminal record.

Attracted Major Boothroyd’s attention at age twelve, when one of MI6’s computer techs caught Edwards hacking the foster care system. Apparently, the little bastard had been arranging choice placement interviews for children who could afford to pay him.

No record of his tampering existed outside MI6 files sealed by M’s personal code. Only MI6 had copies of the records that the Met and Social Services had failed to properly secure. In the six years they’d watched him, Edwards had racked up an impressive juvenile record: breaking and entering, drugs, carjacking, reckless driving, a string of carefully casualty-free explosions. Apparently he’d erased his police record as well, which explained why he wasn’t locked in solitary confinement and kept away from anything more technologically advanced than a piece of chalk.

Christ, what the hell had MI6 let into its midst?

Not that Bond was an angel. In fact, everyone at MI6 had issues of some sort. Between his own tendency to get bored between missions and the way other people loved to impress him with their top secret pillow talk, Bond knew most of their stories. Moneypenny had knifed her husband of three months after he’d hit her; Tanner had saved her from an involuntary manslaughter charge. Tanner himself supposedly had been involved with the PIRA during uni, though Bond had never got confirmation on that; privately, he doubted it. Despite their chequered pasts, everyone at MI6 was loyal to Her Majesty’s government.

Except, perhaps, their new Quartermaster.

Between his rank at MI6 and his own underhanded genius, Q could give himself access to the most sensitive elements of the British government. Effortlessly, he could do more damage than Silva had ever even dreamed of doing. If he wasn’t absolutely trustworthy, he would have to be eliminated. And Bond didn’t see any reason why Q would feel tied to the agency.

Bond sat back in his chair and braced a foot against the desk as he stared up at the ceiling. Instead of finding a floater office shared by anyone who needed a bit of private space, he was in a secure room the size of a loo. He had a chair, desk, air vent, and nothing else — including the surveillance cameras that dotted the rest of MI6 for internal security monitoring. The file on Jack Edwards — Q — was entirely on paper. Tanner was taking no chances.

And that meant Bond couldn’t, either. He thought about his Walther, which he’d returned to Q just a few hours earlier. He’d seen how ineffective it was in the wrong hands, and he thought about how quickly Q might be able to reprogram it to ignore Bond's own palm.

Step one, then: He needed a weapon, one Q didn’t know about.


	2. Chapter 2

Q would have liked to say he could remember the night he got the tattoo. He would have liked to say that the reason he was so fond of it was because it was the product of his own imagination, his thoughtfulness, his attempt at branding himself with his own unique identity. 

But he’d be lying.

The truth was, he got the tattoo when he was sixteen, drunk off his arse, and high on the triumph of having successfully hacked into the HSBC (among other substances) and stolen tens of thousands of pounds. He had released a worm that nicked only a few quid each from their millions of accounts and had it all transferred through hundreds of anonymous internet bank accounts, bounced endlessly around the world, before every quid landed in an untraceable account he and his family of criminal misfits could live off of for years.

His then-lover, nineteen-year-old Matt French, had walked him into a tattoo parlor run by a woman who owed Matt her life. Matt had told her to give Jack (as Q had been known back then) “something sexy and computery, cause he’s a genius.”

“Where?” she’d asked, without ever asking Q his opinion.

Matt had turned him around and wrapped one hand around his chest, sliding his fingertips up to Q’s left pectoral. “How about from here” — the hand traced down his ribs, wrapping around his torso, to dip below the waistband of his loose jeans and cup his left arse cheek — “to here?”

Still caught up in the rush of his criminal conquest, Q had laughed and blushed and said something about RGB-to-VGA cables, USB cables, IDE cables, Firewire cables, and more. He could still remember her listening and nodding, though with the clarity of age and sobriety, he was certain he’d made not a damned bit of sense. And that was before Matt had given him ‘something to ease the pain’.

He woke up in Matt’s bed three days later to Matt saying, “Morning, sleeping beauty! That was one hell of a celebratory trip!” Q hadn’t responded; the whole left side of his body had ached, but he couldn’t see why. He was entirely wrapped up in medical tape and gauze.

When he finally did get to see the tattoo, though he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, he decided he actually felt rather ambivalent about the whole thing. The artwork and colouring were beautifully done and appealed to him aesthetically, but he also felt like it was more Matt’s gift to himself than a gift to Q.

And now, nearly fifteen years later? Matt was dead, and Q mostly used the tattoo as a way to hone his skills as a liar when his occasional and strictly recreational lovers asked him about it. The tattoo had been, according to his various stories: a bet, a dare, a result of having gone undercover once, and so much more.

Still, he’d never even considered having it removed. In fifteen years, he’d even gone in twice to have it recoloured and touched up, but he’d never expanded the scope. The tattoo was perfect the way it was — a reminder of his life before MI6. Every morning, he’d look at the tattoo in the mirror and picture himself as he’d been then, half-tame, high on his own genius and whatever narcotics could keep reality at bay. Then he’d put on his careful, conformist clothes — button-downs and ties and cardigans, all in bland colours — and he’d go to his new life, where his genius was appreciated not for the money or drugs or street power it brought, but for the what that genius could do for his country.

But now, M was dead. Major Boothroyd was dead. Even _headquarters_ was dead in the form that he had loved. Nothing here held any sentimental value. He felt disconnected and distanced from a place that had once been his.

Now, when he stared at his reflection in the morning, his thoughts turned not to the future but to the past: the excitement of hacking a system without the government patting his shoulder and saying, ‘well done, you’. The high that came with the danger of knowing that he was surrounded by enemies, from sysadmins to IT worker bees to INTERPOL’s cybercrime division. The rush of _get in, get out, don’t get caught_.

For the first time in so many years, with no one to care or be disappointed in him, Q was actually thinking about what it would feel like to recapture that high again. 

 _Fuck_.

 

~~~

 

The problem was that Bond had no idea where to begin. Q might be a perfectly loyal MI6 branch director, or he might be more treacherous than Silva. There was no way of knowing with absolute certainty, but Bond would settle for _reasonable_. And once he did know where Q fell on the scale, he’d know how to proceed.

The problem was the initial assessment.

If he’d had _any_ concrete proof that Q might be a traitor, Bond knew precisely how to bring down the full wrath of MI6 on Q, even if it meant not using a single piece of technology. Even if it meant breaking Q permanently, it would only be a matter of time before all of Q’s secrets were his. But without that absolute, unshakable proof, he would proceed as if Q were loyal, which meant that Bond would thankfully start with less extreme measures.

Q’s genius made this complicated, but not impossible. It took Bond two days to secure a weapon outside MI6 control, and then a third day to take it out to the countryside to sight it in and gain proficiency. He couldn’t even risk using his contact at the Met to use their little qualification range; there was a chance, however minuscule, that Q would access their CCTV systems and see Bond there with a weapon that Q hadn’t issued to him.

Finally, four days after receiving his new assignment, Bond took the lift underground to Q Branch, prepared to make what would normally have been initial contact. The fact that he and Q had months of established history — established _trust_ — complicated matters, but not beyond Bond’s ability to manage the situation. He’d handled internal security investigations before.

That morning, he’d dressed with care, choosing a casual grey suit and matte silver tie over a subtly pinstriped shirt. The effect was noticeable; as he made his way through the farm of cubicles and conference tables, heads turned to watch him pass. He had no idea of Q’s sexuality, if any at all, but dressing for a mission was second-nature to Bond. 

He probably should have gone for a more casual look, but he couldn’t bring himself to dress down to Q’s abysmal standards. Mentally, he pictured the young Quartermaster in a properly tailored suit — even better, a dinner jacket — and decided that if the mission required seduction, Bond would take steps to at least include one proper date.

He went up the staircase to the balcony overlooking the technicians’ desks. The front of Q’s office was glass; as he headed for the door, Bond looked inside and saw Q with his back turned, attention wholly focused on the large LCD screen mounted to the wall in front of the high table he used instead of a desk. The screen was black except for a subtle grey MI6 logo moving in a random pattern as a screensaver.

Q’s hands were resting on the keyboard in uncharacteristic stillness. He didn’t react to the faint hydraulic hiss of the door as Bond let himself into the office without knocking. In fact, the longer Bond watched him, the more certain he became that Q wasn’t actually reading anything on the screen at all. He seemed unfocused, unaware; his only movements were occasional blinks and his chest rising and falling as he breathed. It was vaguely unnerving.

When Bond finally let the door shut behind him, the quiet _snick_ of the latch jolted Q out of whatever thought had so completely held his attention. He spun around and stared at Bond. “007. What can I do for you?” He turned his attention back to the computer; his hands jumped into action, as if trying to cover his momentary lapse. The laptop screen glared to life, though Bond could see nothing of it, thanks to the privacy filter.

Guilt? Bond would have thought the new flurry of activity was meant to cover up whatever he’d been doing before, but he’d just been standing there, doing nothing at all. Now, Q was focused wholly on his computer, tapping the keys and paying no attention to Bond at all — not even a glance his way.

Bond hadn’t scripted any of the investigation. There was little point in trying, especially with such a strange unknown factor as Q. He’d come up with a cover story for his visit, one that was not just believable but truthful enough that Bond might well get some benefit out of the interaction, no matter how things turned out. New explosives were always useful.

“I need a better way to detonate a gas tank,” Bond said smoothly, walking right to Q’s workstation. He leaned against it — cautiously at first, until he was certain it would support his weight — and smiled at Q.

“With or without having to get close to the vehicle?” Q still didn’t look up him.

“From a distance, I can just use an RPG,” Bond pointed out logically. “Something up close and personal — obviously with a timer or remote detonator.”

Q seemed to perk up a bit, his head quirking to the side as he thought. “Well, we do have a variety of explosives that will cleanly and efficiently blow up any vehicle from a remote timer, but now that you mention it, one small enough to drop into the tank itself could be quite handy. Removes the possibility of it being found and disarmed.” 

“That’d be lovely. Maybe something with an intensity setting, somewhere between ‘lots of smoke and fire’ to ‘turning the vehicle into shrapnel’?” he hinted casually, studying Q’s expression as he considered the challenge. “Oh, and it would have to work both with diesel and petrol, of course.”

Finally, Q turned to smirk at Bond. “Don’t tell me — you’d like it pen-shaped?” he asked, before his eyes slid past Bond, and his expression suddenly fell.

A moment later, the door hissed open again. Bond looked over at the woman who entered, a curvy brunette with a smile on her face and a thick folder in her hand. The folder was colour-coded for the executive branch, which meant it was administrative.

Before either of them could say a word, Bond snapped, “Get out,” and pushed upright from the workstation to turn his fiercest glare on the young woman. He felt a stab of guilt at her sudden wide-eyed alarm; most people at MI6 recognized the Double O programme agents on sight but didn’t actually _interact_ with them, and certain urban legends had cropped up.

As soon as she was gone, Q turned to regard Bond. “As far as I’m aware, you don’t have any pending assignments that would push this project to the top of list. Care to explain why you just did your best to scare one of my people?” Though his voice was sharp and full of annoyance, the way his shoulders slumped betrayed his relief.

Pointedly, Bond looked at the glass wall to make sure the tech had scurried back down to the cubicle farm below. Then he turned to Q and leaned back against the workstation, lowering his voice. “Strictly speaking, this isn’t an _authorised_ project. The last time I did anything like this, the major casualty was a Ferrari.” He let a bit of wicked amusement creep into his smile; the memory of the diplomat’s definitely-not-his-wife shrieking at the car’s spectacular demise was one he’d treasure.

Q hesitated for only a short moment before he slowly grinned. He didn’t seem to care about the authorisation status of Bond’s side project. “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve spent some quality time in the armoury designing explosives, but I’ll have to work on it in my free time. New duties as Quartermaster and all that. It may take some time.”

Bond looked down over his shoulder at the laptop. The privacy screen on the laptop forced him to lean close against Q before he could see that Q had his email open. “Is that anything critical?”

“I suppose it depends on your definition — ” Q began. Then he sighed and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, no, it’s not. No one is going to die if I don’t check my email. Which is too bad, because that would perhaps make it more interesting.”

Bond grinned at him. “Licence to kill, if you recall. Let’s go see to those explosives. If anyone interrupts us, I’ll deal with them.”

Q moved back from his workstation, flexing his shoulders as if they were sore. “A Double O is actually willing to step foot in a lab? Just how badly would you like to explode cars?”

“You’ve known me for how long, and yet you still ask that?” Bond challenged slyly. “Work with me on this today, and I’ll buy you dinner tonight. God knows you could use a decent meal.”

Q grinned and took a step towards Bond. He reached left and leaned forward, never looking away from Bond’s eyes. There was interest there, though Bond couldn’t yet pinpoint what had caused it. Was it solely the thought of getting away from tedious paperwork and into the lab? How much did Bond himself have to do with it?

He stayed still, letting his expression shift to one of matching interest, though he didn’t take his hands from where they rested on the edge of the desk. The last thing he wanted was to spook Q. For his part, Q didn’t touch him, though they were close enough to share breath before Q backed away suddenly, now holding an electronic passcard taken from the workstation.

Q smiled and turned, heading for the office door. “Well then, who am I to turn down an offer like that?”

 

~~~

 

Q sat back, laughing hard, as Bond yelped in surprise and shook his stinging, tingling hand. “I told you to be careful! Just because it’s a micro design, you can’t assume it’s low-power.”

Reminding himself that he was supposed to be getting close to Q, Bond restrained the urge to snap at him. He shook his hand to try and restore feeling to his fingertips. There was a tiny burn in the centre of his palm. Thankfully, he’d picked the device up with his left hand, though it meant he’d have to be careful shifting gears on the drive home.

Still chuckling, Q pulled off his safety goggles and went to the first aid kit mounted on the wall. Bond followed him, tossing his own goggles down on the table. He rubbed at the lines imprinted on his face and resisted the urge to scratch; Q seemed used to wearing the damned things, naturally.

Instead of giving Bond access to the kit, Q took down the silver cream and a gauze pad. He ripped open the pad, applied some of the cream, and took hold of Bond’s hand. Gently, he dabbed the cream onto the burn.

“I thought we were building explosives, not a taser,” Bond protested. “Though if I can get one of those as well... How long will it hold a charge like that?” Remembering a certain incident of near-fatal poisoning, Bond rubbed his other hand over his chest. He still had the burn scars.

“A tiny sparking wire in a gas tank could cause quite a problem, I assure you.” His eyes narrowed as they focused on Bond’s other hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Your predecessor,” he answered. He dropped his hand from his chest and turned his attention back to the burn on his palm. “He made a single-use defibrillator, but the wires detached. I was dead for something like fifteen seconds.” He said it tonelessly, as if he were simply reporting facts; there was no hint of accusation in his voice.

Q smiled wryly. “Sounds like the sort of thing he might do. His execution of new tech was flawless — beautiful even — but applying it to situations at hand? Well, there is a reason he was never asked to go out into the field. I’m sorry that it caused you problems.” As he spoke, he absently took a plaster from the first aid kit, ripped it open, and smoothed it over the burn.

“He came with me once,” Bond said, still looking down at his hand, his mind racing. He’d heard real emotion in Q’s voice at the mention of Boothroyd. Virtually everyone at MI6 had fond memories of Boothroyd, except perhaps Tanner, who’d had to hold the former quartermaster at bay more than once when he’d wanted to go head-to-head with the previous M over budgetary concerns. Good old Boothroyd. He was always willing to hand over guns, explosives, smoke launchers, or anything else Bond and the other agents could imagine.

Q’s fingers had gone still. He held Bond’s hand with gentle pressure.

Careful to keep his voice casual, Bond continued, “Worst Russian accent you ever heard — he sounded _American,_ if you can believe that. Strictly recon, though. He came back to HQ before the shooting started.”

“I remember that. Six years ago, wasn’t it? In all my life, I’ve rarely been as worried about a person as I was for him — not that I didn’t trust a Double O to take care of him. I was more worried that he’d be so excited to see his gadgets in action that he’d get caught in their blast radius trying to get the best view possible.” Q’s smile turned sad.

“There were a few incidents before my time,” Bond admitted. He flexed his hand, still examining the small burn. “You knew him better than I did, of course. I met him long before MI6, you know, at the HMS Temeraire in Portsmouth. I was his naval liaison officer for a week.”

Q finally seemed to realize that he was all but caressing Bond’s hand and pulled away. “I miss him.” He looked up, meeting Bond’s eyes, and something in his expression made him seem years younger. “Would you mind telling me more? In exchange, I promise not to ask you to hold a live wire again.”

Because Bond was who he was, and because Bond had survived as long as he had, his first thought was that Q had planned this — the burn, the line of questioning, the offer to prevent future pain in exchange for information. Bond himself couldn’t have done it more neatly and casually.

He hid his suspicion, silently cursing Tanner for making him think this way of one of MI6’s directors, and instead escalated the deal. He pointedly looked at his watch — just past seven in the evening, which meant they’d been in here a good six hours. “Or you could save the live wires for tomorrow and buy me a drink instead. We’re already late for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Q asked, repacking the first aid kit. He glanced at the time on his phone, and seemed to be genuinely surprised at the time. “How in the hell did I manage to stay down here, uninterrupted, for this long?”

Bond leaned in deliberately close, speaking in the low voice that he’d perfected over the years. “It’s simple, genius,” he said, watching his breath stir the hair just behind Q’s left ear. “I locked the door.”

With training and practice, it was possible to simulate nearly any physical response, but Bond had a feeling that Q had never spent hours in front of a mirror, teaching himself to control his more subtle tells. Now, he met Bond’s eyes guilelessly, pupils dilated, eyes wide enough to show a certain measure of interest — possibly even awe — without crossing the line into fear or intimidation. His voice was lighter, conveying not just the same interest but a measure of concern for Bond.

“Why would you do that? Not only am I likely to be in trouble — you probably are, too.”

“Because you didn’t answer an email from some committee member needing pointless data from five years ago for budgetary projections?” Bond snorted and looked back at the remains of their afternoon in the lab. “This was a critical study meant to best determine how to prevent an attacker from blowing up one of the Royals’ cars while they’re out on the town. Throw that in front of the proper conservatives, and you’ll suddenly have a budget for more afternoons like this.”

Q gave Bond a look usually reserved for people who rescued kittens from trees. “The real Q was much better at this sort of thing. He somehow managed to do the politics without sacrificing his time doing the things he actually loved. I always wondered how he pulled it off. If you have more tips like that to throw in with stories about him, it will be well worth the cost of your favorite brand of scotch. But I’m still not clear on what you get out of it.”

All afternoon, Q had been methodically tracking the hazardous chemicals he’d used in manufacturing the tiny explosive charges. Now, Bond stepped away from Q, picked up one of the unused prototypes, and dropped it into his pocket. He searched the inventory form on the computer and checked the appropriate box to falsely mark that particular prototype as destroyed.

Then he turned back and met Q’s eyes; he was wary, but not quite ready to protest. Satisfied, Bond walked back to him and said, “A dinner date.”

“First of all, just because I’m letting you take that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep an eye on it. Use it for any purpose other than a sanctioned mission, and you will regret it. Second of all, you don’t need to bribe me with dinner to convince me to work on projects for you. I’m sure you have much better things to do with your time.”

“Well, yes,” Bond said, watching as Q’s expression fell for an instant, before Bond added, “but I’d rather feed you first, _then_ try to get you onto my sofa. Look at you. You’re two meals away from starvation, and I’d rather not have you pass out ahead of schedule.”

Q’s smile was small, but a light flush brightened the tips of his ears and dusted his cheeks. “I only rate your sofa?”

Bond hid a grin. That was the question of Q’s sexuality answered, and Bond’s life made a great deal easier. He’d survived more cases through pillow talk than shooting people.

More innocently, Q continued, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but as long as you promise not to be boring I’ll consider humouring you. Though if you open that door and there’s an angry mob, I’m leaving you to it.”

Bond gave Q a mock-disappointed look. Amused, he said, “We’re in a room full of explosives, Q. If there’s an angry mob out there, we throw the bombs out and slam the door shut. Really, didn’t you get any training?”

“Well, much of Q Branch’s training revolves around ‘don’t blow up the agents’, but the sentiment is fair. Lead the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the lobby, Bond touched Q’s arm to stop him from going for the exit doors. Instead, he led Q to the garage lift, swiped his badge, and stepped inside. “I’ll drive,” he said, assuming that Q didn’t have a car. Bond hadn’t seen a mention of it in his file, and he’d already done a complete assessment of Q’s finances — his known finances, anyway. From what he’d read in Q’s file, Bond had no doubt that Q might well be rich and simply hiding that fact from MI6.

Q stopped outside the lift, his face gone pale. “I know that Double O’s have an obsession with fast cars, but I...” He hovered uncertainly at the door.

Bond looked out at him, surprised to see real fear in his eyes. That would complicate matters, but Bond couldn’t see a way around it, short of going back upstairs to M’s office to break into his stash of whisky. And then he introduced the secondary problem of having Q vomit all over his new upholstery. “Short of someone blowing us up with a helicopter, it’s perfectly safe. And before you try and introduce driver error, you know full well the training I’ve had.”

Hesitantly, Q stepped to the edge of the doors. “Do you have any idea how many moving parts must work together perfectly to keep a vehicle on the road? How the simplest malfunction in the tiniest part can lead to the entire system breaking down? Do you know what the statistical likelihood of death in a car is, especially in city traffic?”

“It’s an Aston Martin, not a Ford Fiesta.”

“Given your record with Aston Martins, I’m not reassured.”

“Quiet, heathen,” Bond said, amused, as he reached for Q to tug him into the lift. “If you’re very respectful, I’ll let you see the engine. If not, I can drag you to The Capital in the boot. Your choice.”

“I’m only getting in this time because you kept the paperwork-hungry mob at bay for six hours today. But don’t expect it to become a common occurrence.”

After pressing the button for the lowest garage level, Bond asked, “Do you walk everywhere? Take the Tube?”

Q didn’t look at him; he stared at the lift control panel, shoulders set with tension. “I do walk a lot, yes. I take the Tube when necessary. But the London train system has an entire workforce of engineers dedicated to keeping it running smoothly, and a much lower likelihood of causing fatalities should its systems fail. It’s all about controlling the factors, you see.”

“I’ve driven off three bridges, four piers, and a three-storey building,” Bond said, and Q turned to look at him in something like horror. “I stopped counting the overpasses. And there was the incident with the train tunnel, but technically I was hanging onto the bonnet and not actually driving — at least until I let go.” He turned, meeting Q’s eyes, and said with quiet confidence, “I promise, nothing will happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that. Though calculating your impressive experience in as a factor certainly makes the odds more favorable.” Q said, closing his eyes and nodding to himself as if making up his mind.

Surprised at just how pleased that made him feel, Bond led Q out into the executive garage. Three years earlier, when he’d been promoted, he’d been issued a parking pass one level lower than his previous, more convenient spot. He took it despite the longer walk from the lift only because the spots were a full foot wider on both sides, and he tended to get irrational at scratches on his cars.

The car didn’t actually have a proper key — just an electronic remote that could control everything from the heated seats to the sound system. He disarmed the alarm and unlocked the bonnet along with the doors. Another touch on Q’s arm steered him to the spot where the gorgeous white-painted beast sat, twelve cylinders of the finest precision engineering the Aston Martin racing department could manage to pack into a tiny roadster convertible.

Silently, he pushed the bonnet open the rest of the way until the hydraulics caught. Then he stepped back to let Q look for as long as he wanted.

Q nodded in approval. “Very high quality British engineering. Parts are significantly less likely to fail than in your average vehicle, and I do mean statistical significance. Excellent handling also reduces the likelihood of crashes.”

Fondly, Bond looked down at the car, saying, “Ventilated carbon ceramic disc brakes. Computer-assisted steering, stability, and traction control. Dual-stage airbags, front and sides. Short of putting you into a Humvee, this is as safe as it gets. And really, H3s are gaudy.” He closed the bonnet.

Q chuckled as he climbed in, awkwardly tucking his limbs in a way that suggested this was a rare experience for him. “Gaudiness has its place, but not on the A1.”

Bond slid into the driver’s seat and decided to leave the top up. He had no idea if it was raining or not, but he’d been known to leave the top down in the rain — and then immediately take the car to get detailed. His dealership was used to his eccentricities. This time, though, he thought Q would feel more secure enclosed beneath the marginal safety of the retractable roof.

He leaned over, reaching across Q’s body to take the seatbelt out of his hand. He drew it across and locked it into place, letting his fingers rest against Q’s abdomen for a moment. “Will The Capital do, or is there somewhere else you’d rather go?”

Q’s breathing quickened, though whether it was due to the prospect of actually driving out of the garage or the placement of Bond’s hand wasn’t clear. “I’m actually not much of food snob. I trust your judgment on such things. Don’t be offended if I end up using excessive amounts of ketchup, though.”

Bond couldn’t quite hide his flinch, though he tried to conceal it by turning his attention to the steering wheel. He put the car in gear with a hiss of protest — he’d forgot the burn on his palm — and eased gently out of the parking spot, rather than tearing out as was his habit. No sense in scaring Q worse than he already was, or might be.

But still, he couldn’t quite resist teasing, as he drove up the first ramp, “It’s a seafood grill. I’m not certain they’ll even have ketchup.”

Stubbornly determined, Q just said, “Cocktail sauce serves the same essential purpose.”

 

~~~

 

They survived the drive to The Capital Hotel. Q didn’t even claw his way out of the seat, though he did exit the car the moment the valet opened his door. Bond caught up with him at the restaurant entrance, only then realising what a mismatched pair they were. Well, at least he looked the part to be here, even if Q looked at best like a relative visiting from the country. Fortunately, Q’s regrettable fashion sense was too refined for him to pose as a rent boy, which saved them both the embarrassment of being turned away from a table.

Bond ordered his first scotch as they browsed the brief _a la carte_ menu. He watched Q’s expression, noting the way he was frowning, probably trying to analyse the ingredients in every dish — not that the somewhat artistic descriptions would help with that.

Finally, deciding Q needed to be distracted, Bond put his own menu down and said, “The HMS Temeraire is one of the Royal Navy’s permanent land stations. The Temeraire’s remit is sailor fitness. Boothroyd ended up with something like a hundred and twenty sailors spending weeks on incline treadmills, stair machines, and the like to test the accuracy of the fitness assessment equipment we still use.”

Q looked up, the concentration lines in his forehead smoothing out as he apparently tried to picture it. “As much as the sailors must have hated him, he must have been in his element. I can only imagine the data he gathered and the ideas it sparked.”

“Well, keep in mind, this was the tail end of ’99, so your lot had that Y2K issue. The Navy was in the middle of transitioning computers from god-knows-what to something else, so there was some incompatibility issue. He ended up stealing — as in, _stealing_ — about fifty machines, reprogramming them after wiring them all together, and worked solely from those until mid-January, when he deemed it safe. I can only imagine the screaming battles between M and the MoD over that,” Bond added with a somewhat wistful smile. Mallory was acceptable, but he really did miss the old battleaxe who’d been in charge for about forever.

Q chuckled. “I can imagine. M and Q made one hell of a team if the occasion called for it. Proper old-school brawn and brain working together for Queen and Country. I have to confess, I am very glad I missed the Y2K mess. Well, ‘missed’ as in didn't work for government at the time. I can imagine Q Branch was not a happy place to be for awhile.”

Bond resisted the urge to ask what Q had been doing; he’d save the questions for later, when they were both more relaxed. “Yes, well, I have him to blame for _failing_ my physical six months ago,” Bond said, catching the waiter’s eye. “Without those blasted machines of his to monitor blood pressure or lung capacity or whatever else, I would’ve passed.”

Q laughed, one hand idly toying with his water glass. He seemed more distracted than distressed, though, so Bond turned to the waiter. The salmon and lobster seemed safe to start, as did the cod and plaice for their main courses. Q glanced at him as he was ordering; he seemed surprised, but didn’t object. Bond took the waiter’s recommendation for Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc, resisted the temptation to order another scotch, and let him take the menus.

Then he turned back to Q, saying, “The worst was when he realised we’d just got a crew fresh off a submarine.”

“Oh god, really?” Q’s eyes lit up before he shook his head. “Wait, no, I’ve changed my mind. You can keep that lovely story to yourself, I think.”

Bond grinned and picked up his scotch. “Exercise on a submarine is limited. The effects of breathing recycled air, living in a pressurized metal tube for months at a time — Boothroyd was like a child at Christmas. You remember how enthusiastic he could get.”

“Oh, those poor, poor sailors,” Q said with faint horror before bursting into laughter. “And you thought you had it bad when you shocked your hand this afternoon. Do you have any idea how one tests muscle density? They must have _hated_ him.”

“I think they wanted to,” Bond admitted, “though he was too good-natured for anyone to stay angry at him for long. That was his secret. He could befriend anyone.” He looked directly across the table at Q, sitting forward a bit. “There were parts of the job he hated — of course there were. But he could always find someone willing to help.”

“Well, I suppose that is one major difference between me and him. He had a way with people as much as with explosives and machinery. I manage to fit in, but never much more than that.” Q sighed and placed his napkin in his lap. “Of the many things he taught me, charm was not a skill I was able to pick up.”

“May I give you a bit of advice?” Bond offered, finishing his scotch. He put the glass aside.

“If you tell me to ‘be myself’ or something equally pithy, I’ll throw something at you.” Q grinned at him.

Bond grinned back. “Interesting as that could be, no. Stop treating your people like they’re all you, and use them instead.”

“Sorry, Bond, but that actually doesn’t make sense. And I thought your famed tolerance was higher.” Q glared at the glass of scotch with mock suspicion, unable to hide some amusement.

“You have people who _live_ for paperwork and forms and regs,” Bond said smugly. “Let _them_ handle your routine filing, reporting, data collation, and whatever the hell else M has you doing. It’s the first lesson you learn as an officer — when to delegate. Otherwise, you’ll kill yourself trying to actually _do_ everything.”

Q’s amusement turned to grudging surprise. “That is actually quite useful. I’m impressed, Bond.”

“ _Commander_ Bond,” he corrected.

“Indeed.” Q’s smile was genuine. “Perhaps not having a military background is more of a disadvantage than I thought it would be.”

“Perhaps. Fortunately, though you have two advantages.”

“Only two? And here I thought this date was going to be full of flattery,” Q said lightly.

Pleasantly surprised by how Q’s mood had picked up, Bond said, “I’m pacing myself. One, you have complete control over your budget and your priority research projects. Therefore, two, you have me. And I happen to be an expert in dealing with upper-level company political bullshit.”

“So, if I make your requests my research priorities, you’ll help me navigate the politics? You don’t think that little arrangement might attract attention?”

Bond laughed. “Bugger politics, Q. I solved my political problems by breaking into M’s house and drinking her scotch whenever things got out of hand. I do people, not politics. I can tell you which of your people might have untapped talents that can save you from having to do it all yourself.”

“It wouldn’t be a free pass. If your ideas are wasteful or ridiculous in any way, I won’t give them any attention.” Q placed his hands flat on the table and stared up defiantly at Bond, as if expecting cajoling or confrontation. “I will not be your pet engineer.”

Wondering just how hard Q would push back, Bond lowered his voice and leaned forward, subtly mirroring Q’s posture. “And I won’t be abandoned in the field because it’s not fiscally viable to extract an agent past retirement age from whatever hellhole M’s sent me to die in. _You_ can get me out, no matter what.”

“As wonderfully simple as it would be, I don’t do return-on-investment for agents. If I’m at all able, I will always get you out.” Q broke his gaze and looked down at Bond’s hand, sliding his own forward the few inches necessary to brush his fingers across Bond’s. “How is your hand?”

Bond turned his hand palm-up, catching Q’s fingers with his own. “Considering that Moneypenny shot me in the chest and dropped me three hundred feet off a bridge, you’re going to have to try harder to impress me. I’m afraid she’s set the bar rather high.”

“Seriously damaging a Double O, especially one like yourself, requires a level of dedication, thought, and effort that I’m frankly not willing to put the time in for. Not yet, anyway.” Q pulled his hand away, leaned back in his chair, and smiled. “Though if you keep plying me with food and drink and ways around paperwork, I might consider it.”

“She was on desk duty for four _months_ after she shot me,” Bond warned. “If you think you hate paperwork now, it’s definitely in your best interests to keep me safe. Otherwise, M will bury you under it.”

“Well, I do think I’ve just discovered one of your greatest tricks: finding a person’s darkest fear and threatening them with it to act in your favour without actually making it seem like a threat. I must say...” Q smirked as he watched the waiter approach. “Impressive.”

“I’m just getting started,” Bond said smugly. “We haven’t even discussed dessert.”

 

~~~

 

Q was, against his better judgement, actually enjoying his evening. Bond was an easy companion, using just the right mix of witty banter, flirtation, and genuinely interesting conversation to keep Q distracted from his recently melancholy thoughts.

A few times during the conversation Q had even felt irrationally ready to just... talk — to explain how _bloody bored_ he was, how terminally uninterested he was in so much of what his new job required of him. To blurt out how much he really missed M and Q. To ask what his chances were of being sent back to R&D without any hurt feelings if he ever became desperate enough to request demotion.

But fortunately, such moments were easily covered by pretending (or _not_ pretending, as the case may be) to be flummoxed by the best way to approach getting the shell off the lobster, or why cocktail sauce really wasn’t acceptable on fish. It was a bit uncivilised for behaviour at the dinner table, but Bond’s amusement never crossed the line into disgust, for which Q was exceptionally grateful.

Not that it meant Q trusted Bond. Q couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but Bond’s subtle and constant pushing wasn’t for Q’s benefit. He could tell that Bond was trying to elicit specific reactions from him, gauging him against some benchmark Q couldn’t quite place. He didn’t really know what to make of it, but frankly he didn’t care. Whether Bond’s motives were as self-serving as they seemed or not, as long as he didn’t ask Q to do anything stupid, he’d play along just for the distraction.

 _Hell_ , Q thought to himself as Bond finished another glass of wine, watching his Adam’s apple bobbing temptingly, _stupid could be fun, too._

“Thank you for putting up with my unfamiliarity with crustaceans. I hope I didn’t put you off lobster for long,” Q said with a smile.

“I’ll have you civilised eventually,” Bond said, and it came off somewhere between a promise and a threat. “What would you prefer for dessert?”

This part of the game, he was familiar with, despite being out of practice. He watched Bond’s self-assured smile and relaxed posture, the tells Q had come to learn were an open invitation. “Well, as much rich food as I've been subject to so far tonight, nothing terribly lavish, I think.”

“Give me some parameters here. Lavish as in some horribly sweet espresso drink or shibari?” Bond asked without a hint of embarrassment.

Q was absolutely certain that the well-timed remark was meant to have him coughing in his drink but he couldn’t seem to stop it anyway. “And who says romance is dead?” He tugged his napkin out of his lap to both dab his face dry and hide his expression as he pretended to contemplate. “Any particular reason I can’t have both? The former as a way to prepare for the latter?”

For perhaps the first time, he caught a hint of surprise in Bond’s expression, as if he’d been expecting Q to ask for clarification or a definition. The smirk that followed was absolutely feral. “I brought you here to have whatever you like. And we’re not a hundred metres from the front desk, if you’d rather have room service...” He trailed off, still smirking, leaving the statement hanging.

“As much fun as that sounds, I’m sure you’re better prepared for” — Q stretched in his seat, trying not to grin as he watched Bond’s expression — “lavishness back at your flat.”

“Does that mean it’s my turn for what _I_ want?” Bond asked mildly.

Q shrugged. “As long as you remember my condition about being able to veto stupid ideas, I think you’ve earned it.”

Bond turned to look for the waiter, saying, “I may have, yes. We’ll see about you when we’re back at my flat.”


	4. Chapter 4

Tanner, Bond decided as he navigated the crowded streets, was definitely an idiot. Of course, he was a _lucky_ idiot, in that at least this waste of Bond’s time had a very definite silver lining... albeit a delicate one. Bond had no idea why Medical hadn’t harassed Q into putting on at least a stone of muscle to protect those fragile-looking bones of his, and that was without seeing him out of those clothes. Moneypenny could probably break Q in half, despite having been been stuck at a desk long enough to lose her edge. Bond was going to have to be careful.

But not too careful. Q had conceded everything to Bond except for control over his R&D plans, and the only reason Bond had even brought those up was to have a point he could surrender to Q. It was standard negotiation: ask for too much, and then ease your requirements to what you’d wanted originally.

Bond needed a capable, functional quartermaster. He _wanted_ one who was also loyal to him, or at least more loyal to him than to budgets and projections and spreadsheets. If a mission went belly-up and M decided to cut his losses, Bond wanted at least one person working to find him. He was honest enough with himself to admit that the Silva incident had rattled him more than anyone had guessed. He could all too easily see himself surrendering to that same bitter darkness, except where Silva had failed, Bond wouldn’t.

A glance at his passenger showed that Q was tense, struggling not to look out the windscreen, though his eyes kept flicking up from the dash. He wasn’t clawing at the car, but his fingers were pressed against his legs.

“Q,” Bond said, easing back on the accelerator a bit. He considered the route home and decided to turn off. Taking a less crowded detour would add a few minutes, but fewer cars might help Q to relax.

Q made an obvious effort to settle his posture, and turned to smile somewhat apologetically at Bond. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t drink much, and what I had at the restaurant is apparently enough to keep me from distracting myself.” He looked out the window at newly lessened traffic. “This is better, though. I appreciate it.”

“Hmm. Close your eyes.”

Q’s gaze refocused on Bond for a moment, and though his tension hadn’t returned, he did seem hesitant. After a moment, he slid his hand across the centre console to rest on Bond’s leg, fingertips just brushing the inside of Bond’s knee. Apparently finding that satisfactory, he finally closed his eyes. “This won’t stop my mind from trying to determine speed, velocity, and other factors, I hope you realize.”

Bond resisted the temptation to take one hand off the wheel and cover Q’s; he had the feeling that driving one-handed might be too much, at least for now. Instead, he asked quickly, “My Walther — what’s the muzzle velocity?”

Q looked faintly puzzled for a moment before a smile of realization crossed his face. “Two hundred fifty-six metres per second.”

“And for my old 7.65?” Bond asked without pause.

“Three hundred twenty metres per second.” Q leaned back into the seat, tension slowly easing from his shoulders.

“The constant for finding the distance in yards to an object of known size in inches,” Bond said sharply.

Q’s fingers twitched on Bond’s leg. “Twenty-seven point eight,” he said, the strain almost completely gone from his voice.

Bond continued to question Q, racking his memory for the most obscure mathematical calculations and statistics that had ever got stuck there. Q barely hesitated, though how he knew such a diverse array of numbers, Bond couldn’t begin to guess. He didn’t dare interrupt to ask, either. As it was, by the time they got near the flat, Bond was ready to start asking basic geometry questions. Next time he dragged Q out on a road trip of more than five minutes, he’d memorize the appendix of a maths textbook or something.

When Bond finally turned the car into the parking garage and lowered the window to swipe his passcard, Q opened his eyes and looked around in surprise. “Last chance to change your mind,” Bond said, holding up his garage pass, though he didn’t touch it to the sensor yet.

“Why on Earth would I do that?” Q seemed puzzled and even faintly annoyed at the suggestion. “The last eight hours have been uncharacteristically pleasant. I’m quite interested to see how you plan to improve on them.”

Bond tapped the sensor and then dropped the card back into the centre console as the security gate rose. “I’m still trying to decide between the sofa and the bed,” he admitted with a glance at Q as he gently eased the Aston Martin down the sloped drive into the underground carpark. “I’m also considering keeping you overnight, just to feed you again in the morning. Consider it me doing my part to keep you out of Medical.”

Q snorted at that last comment, smirking again as he surveyed the vehicles in the car park. “I suspect logistically the bed would be preferable, especially if I’m to stay the night, but I wouldn’t object to the sofa. I don’t object to breakfast, either; though I would protest _actually_ being fed, I don’t think you intended it literally.”

Bond laughed and turned the corner slowly; there was a troublesome truck that tended to stick out of its parking spot most nights. He’d been tempted to do something about it, but hadn’t yet bothered. “No. Though you should tell me what _else_ you’d protest. Otherwise, I’ll assume I have free rein.”

Q’s fingertips at Bond’s knee slid down a little in a considering movement that was more unconscious than deliberate. “I don’t do sensory deprivation. If you tie me up and leave me, even for a short time, I’ll be extremely cross. No ear plugs, either. Blindfolds are allowable only if you specifically ask first and” — Q hesitated — “the mood allows it. Probably not tonight, in case you were wondering.”

Surprised, Bond concentrated on backing the car into his spot. “Anything else I should know about?” he asked, curious about Q’s somewhat unusual limits. He could make some educated guesses, but contrary to what some psychiatrists wanted their patients to believe, not everything was always rooted in childhood. He could’ve had a bad experience a few years ago.

Q sat quietly for a moment in the stillness of the dark car, obviously wanting to say something but struggling with the words. “I’m not...” He sighed. “You may have questions. I may choose not to answer them. And you will respect that.” He pulled his hand away from Bond’s leg, but didn’t attempt to get out of the car yet.

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Bond said, puzzled. He turned in his seat, suddenly thinking that staying in the car might be a good idea; it felt like the energy building between them had suddenly grounded out with a fizzle, and he had no idea why. He might well end up driving Q straight home. “What exactly are you expecting?”

Q shrugged. “Bloody fantastic sex if your reputation is anything to go by, and possibly breakfast in the morning.” He watched Bond, his breathing slow and even, no hint of concern or hesitation on his face.

So much for that fizzle. Bond stared at him until the last of his misgivings died out to whispers, though the whispers wouldn’t go away. Then he turned off the engine and got out of the car, caught up in a mix of fiery arousal and hesitance that was all too familiar. Every damned time he brought a man home with him, there was _something_ slightly off. Christ, how did women actually tolerate men? It was a wonder they weren’t all lesbians just so they didn’t have to put up with the bullshit.

He opened the door for Q, who was obviously relieved to get out of the car; he cast one last wary look its way before turning to stride towards the lifts. Bond followed, arming the car alarm before he dropped the key fob in his pocket. He joined Q at the lift and put a hand on the back of his neck, sliding his fingers into Q’s long, unruly hair. Q was unexpectedly responsive, not just allowing the touch but leaning eagerly into it. Bond stayed close to his side, giving him a push into the lift when the doors finally opened. With his free hand, Bond swiped his keycard and pressed the button for his floor.

As the doors closed, Bond tightened his fingers and asked, “Do you want a safeword or is ‘no’ sufficient?”

Q chuckled, still pushing into Bond’s hand. “‘No’ is fine. You’ll know if I want you to stop, I assure you.”

“How hard do you want me to push?”

“I thought this was your turn to get what you wanted. Do as you like. I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much.” Q pulled his head away a little, increasing the tension in his hair.

Without thinking about it, Bond pushed his hand forward and shoved Q against the wall beside the door, careful to ease up at the last moment. He let his fingers dig into Q’s muscles, watching Q’s breath fog the polished steel. Q didn’t startle or tense; in fact, the tension seemed to leave him at the rough treatment.

“A good start,” Q murmured quietly against the wall, waiting.

Bond took a steadying breath, relaxing even as Q did. There had been no hesitation, no uncertainty — only the sort of surrender that reassured Bond far more than words possibly could. Maybe he wouldn’t have to hold back after all. Well, not too much; there was something fragile about Q that made Bond self-conscious about his own strength.

Remaining silent, he kept Q pinned to the wall until the lift slowed. Then he pulled Q back, waited for the lift to stop, and brought Q through the doors as soon as they opened.

There were only four flats to each floor at this level. He’d taken the northwest corner, out of direct morning sunlight; he preferred to sleep in on those rare times when he actually slept there. He brought Q around the elevator banks to his door, which opened with a touch of his wallet. When the door unlatched, he pushed it open and released Q to go inside.

“I hope that’s not an RFID tag. Do you have any idea how easy that security is to break?” Q asked calmly, stepping inside and immediately toeing off his shoes. “I could upgrade it, if you like.”

That would be a project for another day. For now, Bond shut the door and locked it before he held out his hand. “Your coat.”

Q shrugged it off, scanning the room beyond the foyer idly until his eyes fell on the overstuffed oxblood leather sofa. “Leather? Now I’m afraid I must insist on the bed. Naked, sweaty skin on that could get uncomfortable rather quickly.” The corner of his mouth quirked with a smile.

“I wasn’t aware _your_ comfort was a concern,” Bond murmured, hanging Q’s jacket and his own. Then he slid a hand up into Q’s hair, twisted his fingers, and pulled sharply down.

Q didn’t resist, but didn’t fall to his knees either. “Unless you’re planning to stand the whole time, or kneel on that uncomfortably practical rug, I’d expect you to make some of use of it.”

"We'll see about the bedroom." With a huff that was both amused and irritated, Bond gave Q a push towards the living room. "Wait in there for me."

Q narrowed his gaze. “Alone? For how long?”

Surprised, Bond looked at him, wondering if it was the unfamiliar space or simply that he didn’t want to be alone. He considered the problem of what he needed to do and then gave a little nod, reaching out for Q. “Then come with me.”

Relief washed over Q’s face, and he slid his hand gratefully into Bond’s. Bond led him past the living room to the master bedroom in the corner. The curtains were still open from when he’d left that morning, showing the city lights stretching north and west into the light-polluted, cloudy haze. Bond led Q past the bed to the wall where he had a replica of _Whistlejacket_ by George Stubbs done in oil.

“Sit here, next to me,” Bond said, tugging Q’s hand down towards the floor. Q sat without protest, and Bond moved his hand to Q’s hair, pulling him close to lean against his leg. “Close your eyes.”

Q hummed appreciatively, doing as Bond asked, though a smirk crept onto his lips. “You’re really enjoying my hair, aren’t you?”

“I’m getting used to it,” Bond admitted, grinning. He gave one last sharp tug before he petted it smooth. Then he unlatched the painting and swung it open.

The safe was behind the painting for aesthetics, not concealment; any burglar worth a damn would check behind a painting like _Whistlejacket_. The real security was the fact that the safe was built into a concrete wall and opened only to his biometrics. He put four fingers against the scanning plates and pressed. The readers hummed softly, making Q tense as he tipped his head, listening. When the safe unlatched, he got a little smile as though he’d correctly identified it.

Bond drew the SIG Sauer 250 from his shoulder rig and set it into one of the foam-lined slots he’d built into the small safe. It was sized for handguns and minor valuables — in Bond’s case, far too many watches, cufflinks, tie tacks, and other trinkets he’d acquired, along with his medals. He had two other smaller safes in the flat — living room and kitchen — with holdout weapons. Paranoia was a hazard of the profession.

Then, because Q was Q, Bond decided to stow the holster in the safe as well; one look at the rig and Q would probably know exactly what weapon Bond had been carrying, as well as the fact that it wasn’t one issued by MI6. He pulled off his jacket glancing down as he did. Q still had his eyes closed; one hand had curled around Bond’s ankle, rubbing little circles under the bone. Bond tossed the jacket onto the bed and wrestled out of the shoulder holster. He wrapped the straps in a messy bundle and piled it on top of the jewellery boxes. Then he closed the safe door and replaced the painting with a soft click.

He reached down, combing his fingers through Q’s hair, watching him.

As if the touch were a signal to talk, Q said, “The GunVault biometric safe. Impressive. Though it seems like an awful lot of security when it’s just a fellow MI6 agent you’re taking to bed, not some random person from the bar.” Q’s eyes were still closed and his voice was soft and inquisitive, without the slightest hint of accusation.

Wondering just how sharp Q’s other senses actually were, Bond tugged on his hair again and asked, “What did I take out or put in?”

“A gun. I can’t tell weight or size because of the foam padding, but I’d assume it’s your Walther. I know the techs returned it to you yesterday.” Q leaned his head back onto Bond’s leg. “You took off your holster and put it in there, too, so all together it’s pretty obvious.”

It was possible that Q had no idea about the specific rules for carrying a government-issued weapon outside a mission; even Bond hadn’t known, until he’d been brought into the Double O programme. Q didn’t need to know that Bond’s issued Walther was still in his safe at headquarters. He was tempted to correct Q — he had a feeling he wasn’t wrong very often at all — but he’d be an idiot to brag to a senior MI6 official that he was fully capable of smuggling an illegal, unregistered handgun into and out of MI6 headquarters without setting off a single alarm.

Instead, he stayed silent, watching the curious creature at his feet, and thought about loyalty. This had hardly been a conventional investigation, and Bond acknowledged that he could be wrong, but he had no reason to suspect Q was anything but lonely, isolated, and grieving for his predecessor, a man who’d become a sort of father-figure for Q.

As he brushed his fingers through Q’s hair, he decided that he’d keep watch for any tells of treachery, but that was just for form’s sake; Q was no more a traitor than Bond himself was. Smiling, he thought back to Q’s words at dinner, and he finally began to consider what he wanted to do tonight.

Bond used Q’s extremely convenient hair to pull him back up to his feet. Q unfolded from his position on the floor with an odd sort of grace, never grimacing at the pain Bond’s hold must have caused him. He turned to face Bond, pressing closely, in as many places as he could without causing them both to topple over in a tangled heap. “May I open my eyes now?”

Instead of answering immediately, Bond indulged his curiosity for the first time, running his hands up Q’s body. He felt as if he could count ribs even through the layers of clothing. He held Q close, spreading his feet a bit for a more stable stance, and lifted his hands all the way to Q’s throat, gentling his touch. He watched Q’s pulse and listened to his even, steady breaths as he let his fingers slip lightly over Q’s skin to the sharp edge of his jaw.

Then he bent his head and bit, one sharp nip on Q’s bottom lip, finally provoking a reaction out him. Q’s eyes flew open and he pulled back just enough to make eye contact with Bond. “I’m sorry, but I need to have my eyes open now.” He hovered in uncertain anticipation, waiting.

“No need to apologise,” Bond said, letting it pass without question. He moved a hand to the back of Q’s neck and pressed gently, wondering at the way Q’s pulse was hammering, hard and fast. Was it fear? The nip? Arousal? Some mixture of all three?

Q searched Bond’s face for some sign before, apparently satisfied, leaning against him once more. He brushed his lips tentatively across Bond’s, watching him warily; when Bond allowed it, Q started a new kiss, this time with his eyes open. Unusual, but not precisely new; very little was, these days, a fact that sometimes was more depressing than it should have been.

Bond let his hand rest lightly on the back of Q’s neck. He backed off from the kiss enough to say, “Put your glasses on the table.” He would’ve taken them himself, but he’d known one woman who panicked at the thought of fingerprints anywhere near her glasses, and a man whose instinctive reaction was to hit anyone who tried to take them off him. Bond really wasn’t interested in finding _all_ of Q’s odd triggers in one night.

The thought made him pause, searching inside himself, wondering if he was planning on this being more than a one-night stand. Q wasn’t his usual type, but he was interesting. Not easy, either, which was a nice change.

“Only my glasses?”

After a startled moment, Bond said, “Glasses first. Feel free to take off anything else, as long as you don’t get in my way.”

“First, I suggest you not get in _my_ way, long enough for me to take off my socks; then I’ll leave the rest to you,” Q proposed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He pulled off his glasses and set them on the bedside table. Then he reached down to pull off what appeared at first to be obnoxiously coloured argyle socks. A closer inspection revealed them to have tiny spiders woven into the design — the ones from Spiderman comics.

If Bond hadn’t seen Q’s actual file, he might’ve dropped his estimate of Q’s age by five years on the spot. And given that he barely looked into his twenties, he would’ve promptly escorted Q out of his flat and then proceeded to get spectacularly drunk.

As it was, he had to take a steadying breath to hold back his laughter before he asked, “Done, then?”

Q squinted in the direction of Bond’s voice but failed to focus on him. “Unless you want me to put my glasses back on, you should come close enough for me to be able to see you. Let’s call two feet maximum safe distance.”

Deliberately, Bond took one step forwards, so the cuff of his trousers brushed over Q’s bare foot. “Next time, you can just say ‘yes’,” he said, gathering a handful of Q’s shirt in one fist. He pulled Q up to his feet and resumed the interrupted kiss from before.

Q pressed against him, catching a breath when Bond moved from kissing to nipping. “This is a good distance. Just about right,” Q murmured. His hands hovered close to the lines of Bond’s body without actually touching him, as if uncertain he were allowed.

Bond left Q to figure out his own way through this minefield; he was having enough difficulty dealing with one side of their unstable equation. Instead, he concentrated on memorising every detail of Q’s mouth, the taste and feel and heat. He saw no reason to rush at all, and focused his attention entirely on the kiss, holding Q in place with fingertips on his jaw and a palm on the back of his neck. For now, nothing else mattered.

Q’s hands finally grew restless, his left sliding with only the slightest pressure up Bond’s arm, his right tugging gently at the hem of Bond’s shirt. “May I?” he pulled away briefly to ask breathlessly. When Bond didn’t answer immediately, just held his gaze, Q amended, “Please?”

Bond’s hesitation hadn’t been intended to get Q to ask nicely, but he couldn’t honestly say he didn’t like the sound of it. “Go ahead,” he said, and went back to kissing, this time moving to follow the line of Q’s jaw. His skin was surprisingly soft, the stubble sporadic but dark. 

Q’s reticence didn’t immediately melt away, despite the permission. As if slowly easing himself back into intimacy, Q gently ran his fingertips up the curve of Bond’s spine. They briefly trailed along the nape of his neck before dipping below to the collar to feel the bones underneath. Q’s right hand continued to toy with the hem of Bond’s shirt, pulling and twisting it up out of his waistband, before slipping underneath to rest a hand's breadth above the hip. He dug in briefly, pulling closer, before releasing both hands to start working on Bond’s clothing. 

As he felt Q’s fingers fighting with his tie and buttons, he reached the point of Q’s jaw, just under his ear, and bit hard. Apparently Q having his eyes open made all the difference, for this time Q didn’t pull away. In fact, he pushed into the bite, breath stuttering, fingers pausing in their quest to unbutton Bond’s shirt to clench at the fabric.

 _Better,_ Bond thought, tightening his hand on the back of Q’s neck to hold him steady. His other hand fell to the small of Q’s back, pulling him close enough that every breath dragged against Bond’s chest. He bit again, this time on Q’s neck, a broad bite that dug into flesh and tendons and muscles without pinching skin.

This time Q’s fingertips responsively dug into Bond hard enough to grasp skin. “If you don’t stop doing that, I’m never going to get this shirt off.”

In answer, Bond’s hand slid from Q’s nape to his hair. He pulled sharply back, baring Q’s throat, and Bond’s next bite was into the soft spot under his jaw, just hard enough to press against his trachea.

Q’s response was nonverbal and beautiful: He canted his hips forward and groaned in pure pleasure. Bond smirked, thinking he’d finally found an effective way to silence Q. He dragged his teeth down to lay another bite, gentler this time, followed by a third, each one just below the last. Only when he reached Q’s collar did he stop, untwisting the strands of hair from around his fingers.

“Sit,” he said, releasing Q reluctantly. He gave Q a push towards the bed, and Q only managed to pull himself together just in time to not completely flop backwards bonelessly. He sat watching, unbuttoning his cuffs as he waited to see what Bond was going to do next.

“You’re bloody good at that, you know.” He reached forward to gently grasp Bond’s left wrist, turning it so he could reach Bond’s own cuff button there. “Though I suppose it does mean that I’ll have to invest in a turtleneck shirt or scarf for work.” He released the left to do the same to the right, tracing the veins in there before letting go. His fingers then hovered at the bottom button of Bond’s shirt, waiting.

“There’s more than enough of you that’ll be covered up,” Bond said, unbuttoning the three buttons on Q’s cardigan. He pushed it open and then gave Q a hard shove to drop him onto his back.

As soon as Q hit the mattress, Bond bent over him. He unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt, opening the fabric enough to bare a narrow vee of skin stretched taut over sharp bones. There was barely enough flesh for Bond to bite, but he didn’t hold back. Q arched into it, making no effort to stop Bond. Wondering just how far he could push, Bond opened another button, baring a fresh patch of skin for a bite that was more a scrape of teeth over taut skin.

With each button, Bond bit again, following a line down the centre of Q’s chest. It was only when he was down two more buttons that he noticed an unusually dark patch of skin on the left side of Q’s chest. He lifted his head and brushed the shirt aside to reveal a tattoo. It was intricate and gorgeous, stark black lines filled in with brilliant primary colours, all twisted together in what Bond thought at first was a tribal pattern. Instead of gentle curves, though, the lines were all even thickness, terminating in intricate, geometric ends.

 _Wires,_ he realised as he finally recognised the ends of one of the lines. It was that cable he used to sync his mobile to his computer, or something like it. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking it was almost _too_ appropriate for someone with Q’s skills. At least it wasn’t some bloody mistranslated Chinese character with some ridiculous new age zen meaning. He took a moment to trace some of the lines with his fingertips in appreciation.  

He went back to unbuttoning, finding it easier to make Q gasp and flinch with teasing bites against his abdomen. He laid his last bite right at the top of Q’s trousers, pushing the fabric down as much as he could without unhooking the waistband. Then he pushed up off Q’s body, one hand braced on the mattress, and shoved the shirt and cardigan aside, baring Q’s chest.

He couldn’t help but stare first at the tattoo. It was more extensive than Bond had first thought, starting on the left side of his chest and snaking around to disappear somewhere on his back. More noticeable, though, were the other scars — thin white lines and small round burns, all of them long faded with age. Bond had far too much experience reading a person’s history in scars; Q had come by these early in life, when he’d been a child.

Bond thought about Q’s file: an abandoned child lost in the foster care system that he eventually learned to manipulate for his own purposes. Anger flashed through him, sharp and sudden, the type of anger that might turn into cold logic or might burn red-hot but always ended with death and destruction, because that was how he’d been trained to respond. Now, though, he had to push it aside. Even if the ones responsible had never been brought to justice, this wasn’t Bond’s fight. 

The emotional dissonance lasted only seconds, but still Q had gone tense. Bond said nothing; he kept his expression neutral, letting his hand wander over Q’s skin. Slowly, Q relaxed as if realising Bond wasn’t going to comment.

“Take off the cardigan and shirt,” he said, reaching down to run his fingers over Q’s abdomen. He ignored the scars, concentrating instead on the tight muscles below his fingertips. Q probably did nothing to work out, other than walking — prompted not by a desire for exercise but by his fear of cars. Apparently, he walked enough that there was hardly an ounce of fat on him.

Q relaxed with a grin. He finished removing his cardigan and shirt, tossing them carelessly aside as he leaned up to start work on Bond’s clothes. His movements slowed at the first press of fingertip to plastic button, long fingers undoing it slowly, his eyes focused on Bond’s.

Christ, he really was fascinating to watch, Bond thought. His eyes had gone dark, as if his dilated pupils brought out amber tones in the hazel. His lashes were ridiculously long, and his lips were dark from Bond’s rough kisses.

Once the top three buttons were undone, Q followed Bond’s example, pressing kisses to skin, though never once letting his eyes stray from Bond’s face. But Q was obviously too eager to drag out the process much, and he’d barely let his lips slide across Bond’s stomach before he leaned with a wicked smirk.

“You’ll have to forgive me my impatience...” he began, looking up Bond’s body, though his gaze never reached Bond’s face. The quality of his smile changed to one of anticipation as he stared with open appreciation at Bond’s chest and shoulders.

“Actually, the only thing I _have_ to do is die, and I’ve already done that twice and proved rubbish at it,” Bond said, catching hold of Q’s wrists. He stepped away from the edge of the bed and pulled Q up to his feet

Q didn’t try to fight free. Without protest, he let Bond turn him roughly around to face the bed. Before Q found his balance, Bond bit into the muscle between his neck and shoulder; finally, he could let his teeth dig in hard without fear of causing any real damage, and he indulged, trapping Q in a strong embrace to hold him still.

“Oh, fuck,” Q gasped, arching backwards as much as Bond’s grip allowed. His hands were low on Q’s abdomen, fingers unbuckling his belt. “Ignore my previous statement. It isn’t my impatience we have to worry about at all, is it? And no, that’s not an objection, in case you were going to ask.”

“You talk too fucking much,” Bond said into Q’s skin. He finally found the waistband clasp and undid it. He nudged Q’s hair out of the way and moved his mouth over the back of Q’s neck as he unzipped his flies.

“You’ll have to be significantly more original with your insults than that if you expect” — Q started to say, but he lost his breath the moment Bond sank his teeth into the soft skin over his spine — “expect a” — another hard exhale as Bond’s hands found their way into his trousers — “a reaction.”

Bond knew Q could feel his grin against his neck, pleased at Q’s declining ability to articulate. Rather than giving Q any time to recover, Bond shoved the trousers down so he could get his hands into the waistband of Q’s pants. He eased up the bite enough to say, “Take it off — everything,” before he bit even harder in contrast to a light brush of his fingertips over Q’s hipbones.

Q rushed to comply, shoving his trousers and pants down in one quick motion. He hopped rather ungracefully out of them before kicking them to the side. “Now aren’t you glad I took off my socks first?”

Bond took a deep breath. Before the end of the night, he _would_ find a way to rob Q of his ability to speak coherently for more than thirty seconds at a time. He wanted to learn everything that made Q’s all-too-orderly mind shatter, but not anytime soon. For now, all he wanted was to lose himself in Q’s body; anything more would have to wait for next time.

The thought gave him a moment’s pause. Apparently, they were going to turn this one-night stand into a repeat performance, at least if Bond had his way.

He brought one hand up, fingers splayed just above Q’s sternum, and said quietly, “Next time, I’m going to spend hours taking you apart, Q, until you can’t even remember how to breathe.”

Q stilled against him, and when he finally spoke, it wasn’t taunting or snarky at all. “I think I would like that very much,” he said with soft conviction.

“Good. Because right now, I want to fuck you. Any objections?”

Q melted back against Bond’s chest, breath stuttering. “Oh god, no.”


	5. Chapter 5

Bond’s reputation was obviously richly deserved. Q had been all but abstinent the past ten years, only occasionally bringing home one-night stands when he was feeling up for the challenge, and it had been nearly two years since his last encounter. He really should be a lot more worried about the direction this evening was taking, he thought, but couldn’t actually bring himself to be. 

Part of it was an eagerness born of deprivation. He wanted this, the obscene slide of skin against skin, of fingertips pressed too hard, of mouths moving rhythmically against each other in a carnal dance whose completion wasn’t Q’s main objective. Orgasms were nice, but it was the desperate, sweaty, divine pleasure of bodies pressed together that Q chased.

Part of it was the freedom from scrutiny and questions. Bond didn’t seem to give his mangled skin much of a second glance — probably, Q thought, because his own was no shining example of a life cleanly lived. In fact, though Bond was a secret agent whose secondary purpose was intelligence gathering, he’d actually _refrained_ from asking many questions at all.

But most of it was actually how bloody good Bond was. He knew just what kinds of caresses to use, just what kind of pressure to apply, just how to keep Q engaged — how to pull him out of his own mind and into the present.

Bond wasn’t gentle when he pushed Q down over the side of the bed. His hand flattened between Q’s shoulderblades, one finger tracing over his vertebrae. Q turned, resting his cheek against the soft duvet, and looked back at the slightly blurry figure standing behind him, staring down at him — and liking what he saw.

Bond moved his gaze up from Q’s back to meet his eyes. “How do you want me to do this?”

“Well, it’s been a while. So slow would be best.”

“Tell me if I hurt you unnecessarily,” Bond said, and the ‘unnecessarily’ sent the best sort of shiver through Q. Slow didn’t necessarily mean gentle, and he wanted to feel _everything_. He craved intensity. He needed to be overwhelmed. 

Bond’s fingers dragged down Q’s back. He leaned over, rooting through the drawer of the bedside table with his free hand, careful to never break skin-to-skin contact. Q listened, unable to see everything that was going on. Lubricant and condoms — it wasn’t a surprise that Bond would insist on both, given his known history of bed partners. For a moment, Q calculated the odds that they were both healthy enough to eliminate the condoms; he’d lived celibate for far too many years, and had gone through ten years of MI6 health checks. And as a field agent, Bond was sent to Medical every time he returned from a mission.

His thoughts scattered at the first touch of Bond’s slick finger. The touch started light and teasing, but Bond wasted no time in pushing his fingertip inside, sending fire surging into Q’s veins.

Q knew that many men hated this part, seeing it only as a means to an end. Q was emphatically not one of them. His mind flickered through half-remembered anatomy classes, marvelling at the oddest places evolution decided men need high concentrations of nerve endings. He couldn’t close his eyes yet, but he lay there and let his vision cloud, gazing at a spot far enough away that the visual cues were near non-existent. He tried to give himself over entirely to the sparking of every nerve where Bond was concentrating his attention.

Bond was patient and careful, steadying Q with a hand on his hip, fingers pressing into the sharp jut of his hipbone with enough force to distract Q further. Bond’s other hand moved slowly but without pause, drawing back in fine increments before pushing deeper. Bond had done this before — which was a ridiculous thought, Q realised. Of course he had.

Sooner than Q expected, Bond curled a second finger against the first and pushed inside, adding a deeper burn to the sensations, making Q squirm under Bond’s hands. Q could hear Bond’s breathing; it was more rapid now, and he could imagine Bond watching intently, that fierce mind behind those eyes like ice focused entirely on him. The thought stripped away another layer of his awareness, helping him sink deeper into pure physical sensation.

When Bond pushed his fingers all the way inside, he nudged at Q’s leg with one knee. The touch of cool, fine wool rather than hot skin dragged Q out of the delicious awareness of his body. Bond was still dressed, shirt and tie undone, trousers and shoes still on. Q really, really didn’t want to stop Bond, but really he didn’t want Bond to keep his clothes on, either. It defeated the purpose entirely — he’d rather not finish this at all if he couldn’t have skin pressed to naked, glorious skin.

“Wait,” he said nervously.

Bond’s fingers stopped moving immediately. 

Still tense, Q asked, “Being dressed — is it a dealbreaker for you?”

For one moment, Bond didn’t respond. Then he laughed softly and moved his free hand to the small of Q’s back. “No. Can you be patient long enough for me to undress?” he asked, amusement clearly audible in his voice.

Q was deeply tempted to give him a snarky comeback — and not just because Bond’s honest laughter was a thing of beauty, but because he didn’t want any confusion in future encounters. Because, god, he hoped there would more. So instead he said, “Your being dressed would be a dealbreaker for me. I need to feel you. So yes, I’ll wait. I won’t even pretend to complain about it.”

“And you do so love to complain,” Bond teased. Gently, he eased his fingers out of Q’s body, and for a moment, Q ached at the loss. “My scars aren’t going to cause you to remind me that it’s best to _avoid_ bullets, is it?” he asked over the sound of him kicking off his shoes. “I think they covered that at some point in my MI6 training, though it’s been some time since orientation.”

Relieved, Q laughed somewhat breathlessly. “No, I quite like that we match in at least one way physically. Besides, I’d probably have better luck telling you that you really should get yourself shot a few more times, just for character. You do have a habit of being contrary, after all.”

Bond’s bark of laughter was punctuated by a sharp slap to Q’s arse, sending a wave of stinging heat through his body. “You sound like M,” he accused. His hands moved away, and Q heard fabric drop to the floor.

Q sighed. “Well, I suppose that was inevitable. Ten years with her and Q as my stand-in parents? Picking up their habits was probably a given.”

After another rustle of cloth, Bond’s hand slid up Q’s back. “Stand up,” he said, leaning close enough to grab hold of Q’s hair and pull back.

Surprised, Q rose a little unsteadily. As soon as he was standing, Bond pulled him back against his chest, holding him by one hip and an arm across his chest. A thrill coursed through him as he realised Bond had taken to heart his need for contact, to feel Bond’s body against his own. As though by instinct, Bond’s teeth found his shoulder, scraping lightly before he bit. With every breath, his skin shifted against Q’s back; Bond held him so tightly that he could feel Bond’s heartbeat.

“Perfect,” Q exhaled quietly, almost unwilling for either of them to move for fear of breaking the connection anywhere. But then he realised he could have just a little more, if only for as long as Bond allowed it before moving forward. He reached back to wrap his arms behind Bond’s neck, which forced him to tilt his head and bare his neck even further.

Bond didn’t even pretend to resist biting again, as far forward around Q’s throat as he could. His fingers dug against Q’s body, turning pale skin even whiter. Q could feel the touch against his bones, and it was exactly what he needed. He leaned his head back, forcing Bond to release the bite, and leaned in for a hard, deep, and messy kiss.

With a sudden, frustrated growl, Bond set his hands on Q’s hips and pushed to turn him around. Startled, Q dropped his hands and staggered back. He kicked one heel against the bed, just as Bond shoved him backwards onto the mattress. As Q fell, Bond followed, ducking to recapture his lips.

Between sharp bites and licks into Q’s mouth, Bond demanded, “Move up.” His hands swept over Q’s body, pushing to crowd him up onto the mattress and across it. Bond crawled after him, almost trapping Q under his weight as soon as Q’s legs were mostly onto the bed. Q didn’t mind being trapped under Bond’s weight at all — in fact, he craved it, wrapping his arms around Bond’s shoulders, pulling him down. He wondered if Bond would start to get impatient with him and his odd brand of sensuality, so he added incentive by canting his hips upwards, bring their cocks together for the first time tonight. He waited for Bond to press back before wrapping his legs around him to sustain the connection.

When Bond groaned, Q pressed his face against one strong shoulder to hide his grin until he could speak. “Is this all right?” he whispered innocently into Bond’s ear.

Bond’s laugh was strained. “Manipulative bastard,” he accused, sliding his hands under Q’s back. Then, in one strong twist, he rolled onto his back, pulling Q on top of him, freeing his hands to swipe down Q’s back. “Now you fucking ask?”

He ran his hands over Bond’s shoulders, feeling the muscles underneath. Bond was more relaxed now that Q was on top, smiling up at him with a lazy sort of sensuality. Q met that smile with one of his own and said, “It seemed well-timed.”

Laughing softly, Bond took hold of Q’s hips and pulled him down. The friction, cocks brushing together, trapped between their bodies, lit sparks behind Q’s eyes. Bond hissed in a breath and held Q close with one arm across the small of his back.

After a moment, Bond dragged in a breath. “Move, Q.”

Oh yes, that he could do. He slid down, his palms coming to rest on the mattress on either side of Bond’s upper arms. He bucked his hips forward, a gorgeous slide of skin-on-skin, tearing a faint whine of pleasure from deep in his chest.

Bond’s breath caught. He tensed, arching up against the mattress, meeting Q’s careful thrusts. He scratched up Q’s back, hard and fast, to wrap his fingers around the back of Q’s neck and pull him down into a kiss as intense and hot as the one that had started this. 

Q wasn’t expecting it, so his reaction was perhaps more excessive than it needed to be. He threw himself into the kiss while picking up the pace of his movements. Having gone so long without, however, meant he was already being pushed too close to the edge. It took all of his resolve to push back, bracing up on his hands, and look down into Bond’s lust-darkened eyes.

“But, wait, I won’t last long like this. I thought you wanted...” He stared down at Bond and pulled his hips forward, balls dragging over Bond’s cock.

“You talk too much,” Bond accused, and reached up to fist one hand in Q’s hair. He pulled Q back down and deliberately arched his hips up against Q’s body.

Q wanted to bring his own hand up to cover Bond’s, to encourage him to pull harder, but he knew he’d lose his balance. Instead, he tempted fate and went for another kiss, and was rewarded with a sharp bite to his bottom lip as soon as he came within reach. Bond pulled one leg up enough to flatten his foot at the edge of the mattress, giving him the leverage to thrust hard against Q’s body. His other arm flexed, pulling Q close enough to steal his breath.

Q’s body apparently decided that was all it could take. He could feel the fire not just in his balls and stomach and the base of his spine, but in every inch of skin that pressed to Bond’s. “Oh god, Bond, fuck,” he whispered into the kiss, concentrating on the perfect symphony of sensations from every point of contact between them. His thrusts became harder and faster as he felt his control slipping completely. “Fuck, yes.”

Wordlessly, Bond encouraged him, fingers curling. Short, blunt nails dug into Q’s skin. He backed out of the kiss enough to look up into Q’s eyes, watching him intently.

Finally, Bond got his wish as Q lost his words to the exquisite rush of orgasm, crying out in ecstasy. Through it, Bond held him more gently, fingertips rubbing little circles over the stinging fingernail marks on his back. Bond didn’t try to push him away to clean up or to demand reciprocity. He let Q lay on top of him, trembling in the afterglow, for as long as he needed to feel coherent again. Q wanted to move, wanted to repay the favor, but it took him a minute. Or three.

When he pushed up enough to look into Bond’s eyes, Bond asked, “Are you all right?”

“I think I may have mentioned it’s been a while,” he chuckled with self-depreciation. "Sorry. I’ll just...” He started to slide down, reaching for Bond’s still-hard cock, but Bond’s arms tightened, holding him in place.

“It’s fine,” Bond said quietly.

Q went cold inside. Oh _shit_. He stared down at Bond, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. It had been perfect, on so many levels, and he didn’t want to risk losing the chance at another opportunity to do it again. He bit back an instinctive _‘like hell it’s fine’_ and settled on a less confrontational approach: “Just tell me how you want me.”

Bond laughed softly and shifted under Q’s weight. He let his hands rest at the small of Q’s back, petting him idly. “You don’t have to do anything, Q, unless you feel like fetching my shirt.” He lifted a hand and gestured over the side of the bed, where their feet were.

Q’s pulse started to pick up again in his panic. “Look, Bond, whatever I did wrong, just tell me so I can avoid it. I’m very good if —”

“Stop,” Bond interrupted, blinking up at him in surprise. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m too bloody lazy to walk to the bathroom and get a towel, that’s all.”

“Why won’t you let me help you finish?”

“I’m not going to die, Q. I’m not fifteen anymore,” Bond said, sounding amused.

“That’s not the bloody point. I did something wrong, and you’re going to tell me so I can fix it,” Q insisted, stopping himself an instant before he said anything about doing better next time. At this rate, there _wouldn’t_ be a next time.

Bond reached up and pulled Q back down against him. “Stop,” he said softly. “There’s _nothing to fix_ , Q. When was the last time you came apart like that for someone other than your own hand?”

“How is that even remotely relevant?”

“Because I’d rather have that than anything else you could ‘fix’ for me,” Bond answered.

 _Yeah, right_ , a treacherous voice whispered, but Q didn’t say it. He started at Bond, thinking fast, before finally decided there was a benchmark of honesty even a practiced liar like Bond probably couldn’t fake. Q leaned down slowly, clearly broadcasting his intent to kiss him. If Bond were disgusted with everything they’d done, Q would be able to tell.

Without hesitation, Bond returned the kiss. He’d apparently developed the habit of tangling his fingers in Q’s hair during their kisses; he did so now, though he managed to keep his touch gentler than he had before. The kiss was sensual and slow and thorough, without a hint of reticence or hesitation at all, as if Bond would be content to lie under Q and do nothing but kiss him for the rest of the night.

Reassured, Q murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“I’d ask ‘for what’, but god help us both, you might explain, and then we’d never get under the blankets,” Bond teased.

“Now that you mention it, I am getting a little chilly,” Q responded with a smile. “I’ll get us towels.”

“Or you can just grab the shirt and not go all the way across the damned room. I’d rather keep you close, if you don’t mind.”

Q was sure Bond would notice his incredulous stare, but couldn’t help it. Finally, watching Bond blink with lazy smugness, Q burst into a tiny fit of laughter. “I suppose if you insist, I can put up with some cuddling. I never imagined you were the type,” he said, still giggling as he bent to reach the shirt. “Though I must warn you, it might turn you into my enabler. I’ve always —”

A sharp slap to his arse cut him off with a startled gasp. Bond reached past him, doing a poor job of hiding his own laughter, and snatched the shirt from Q’s hand. “Enabler,” Bond muttered, swiping halfheartedly at the mess on his stomach with the shirttails.

Q snickered one last time before stealing the shirt back to finish the job, some of his guilt returning. Bond pulled the blankets away and laid down, holding out a hand to Q as if preemptively stopping Q from asking about sleeping elsewhere.

Q dropped the shirt back on the floor and crawled under the blankets next to Bond. As soon as he laid down on his side, Bond rolled over, crowding him. One arm locked around his body, holding his back tight to Bond’s chest; the other arm slid under his pillow. Bond nudged Q’s head forward and brushed his lips over the back of Q’s neck. The warm strength of Bond’s arms and the security of his hold was intoxicating.

“Are you tired?” Bond asked, lips moving over Q’s skin. “Do you need the lights off?”

Q chuckled sleepily. “I used to be able to sleep through Q’s three-a.m. insomnia-driven experiments, which usually involved flashbangs and a fair bit of gunpowder; bedside lamps are nothing to that.”

“Good.” Bond held him more tightly, one leg moving over his, trapping him. “If I have a nightmare, don’t try to wake me. Just get out of bed.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with much, much worse, I assure you. It’ll be fine.” Q yawned deeply. “And likewise, by the way.”

“Christ, if we end up killing each other in the night, we’ll fuel office gossip for weeks,” Bond complained. He nipped the back of Q’s neck. “Let’s try to survive till morning, hm?”

But Q was already close enough to sleep that he only hummed in response.


	6. Chapter 6

_By the age of ten, Jack was used to things being unfair._

_The punishments he was subject to for actions he didn’t think of as offences always seemed excessive. Not being able to have bread with dinner for a week because he swore at the dinner table seemed fair. Not having any dinner at all for a week didn’t. Being made to eat table salt straight from the spoon because he’d complained that he didn’t like peanut butter? Saliva preemptively filled his mouth at the memory._

_But this? This was the first time he’d been so afraid._

_He felt tears slip down his face as he thought about what he had done that was supposedly so bad. His foster father had showed him his new computer, but told him not to touch. It was cruel, really — Mr. Johnson had known that in one of Jack’s earlier, longer placements, his foster parents had been a programmer and animator, respectively. They’d taken Jack’s knack for computers and, over his three years there (the longest he’d ever belonged anywhere) moulded it into a skill particularly remarkable because of his age (8 years old). In fact, he was far better at bending command prompts to do his will than most adults._

_When then they’d died, and he’d bounced from computerless home to computerless home for over a year. It was 1990, and he was aching to get his hands on the new Windows operating system and, in particular, a mouse. The idea fascinated him. So when one showed up in the Johnson’s living room, despite the growled warnings, there was no way he was going to miss the opportunity._

_The tears staring coming faster down his face in the dark. He hadn’t even broken anything. He just wanted to see. And now he couldn’t see anything._

_Instead of smacking him around a bit (which he was used to and expecting), the Johnsons had decided that he was just too offensive to be in their presence at all. They’d sent him up to the attic._

_It was horrible. He couldn’t see anything for the lack of windows or lightsource of any kind. The gratingly loud hum of the dehumidifier drowned out all other sounds so there was nothing but white noise. There were no blankets, no furniture, or anything at all in the attic. Just the cold wooden floor and drafty wooden walls._

_Jack was only brought down twice a day for water, bread with cheese, and bathroom use, though the complete dampening of his senses made it impossible to tell when they were coming for him. He would have no warning — just the sudden grasping of an adult’s bruising grip on some part of him, dragging him down the dark stairs. He wondered how they could see him, but he couldn’t see them; he wondered if maybe his eyes were closed and he couldn’t tell._

_Then he would spend a few minutes in the overwhelming light and noise and rush of input, which somehow felt worse after the predictable dark._

_It lasted for four days, the first time. Three the next. Five the time after that._

_Then he lost count._

 

~~~

 

Q woke up gasping in the darkness, automatically reaching for the person who should have been in the still-warm spot to his right. There was no one there. For a moment, he was paralysed, panic threatening to overwhelm him.

 _Alone_ , his mind whispered to him. _Dark_.

It was just a nightmare. He knew it was just a nightmare. And as his eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar darkness, he saw it: _light_.

He struggled to focus, eyes adjusting enough that he could make out a faint gleam coming through two huge corner windows. Streetlights and headlamps and the glow of other windows looking out into the night. London.

As the panic ebbed enough to allow him to breathe, he wrapped the duvet around himself like a cocoon. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to get up and rush from the room. Instead, he inched to the corner of the bed so he could reach the light on the bedside table. He fumbled to find the control. With a click, he finally filled the corner of the room with soft golden light. He put on his glasses and breathed another sigh of relief as the room came into focus.

 _Bond,_ he remembered, recognising the clothes on the floor. He’d been there, holding Q close as they both drifted off to sleep, but now he was gone.

Q could tolerate sleeping in dark rooms only if a person he trusted was close at hand. It had been years and years since he’d had that, and now he wasn’t sure if he did. He’d _thought_ he could trust Bond, but now Bond had left him alone in the dark. And much as he knew it was irrational — he was a grown man, for fuck’s sake — he couldn’t stop the bitter resentment that slowly mingled with the fear.

When he thought he could stand, he freed himself from the blanket enough to reach the other bedside lamp. The light was better, but it wasn’t enough until he got up to turn on the overhead light as well. Only when the darkness was completely gone, leaving not even a shadow beside the dresser, did he sit back down on the edge of the bed.

Maybe Bond didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t understand. Why would he? Q wasn’t about to tell Bond — a man who chased after death in service to their country — that he was no better than a child, scared of the dark. Scared of being alone.

He dropped his head into his hands, fingers twisting in his hair, evoking the sense-memory of Bond’s touch. He could still feel the faintest pull of bruised muscles at his neck and shoulders where Bond’s teeth had dug in, making Q _feel_.

Maybe that was it. The pleasure had been definitely one-sided. Maybe Bond just hadn’t wanted to sleep next to someone while he was still unsatisfied.

There was no harm in at least finding out where Bond was. Maybe he could coax Bond back to bed and convince Bond that the pleasure didn’t have to _stay_ one-sided. He was feeling anything but sexy at the moment, but Bond wasn’t a friend he could go to for emotional support.

Gathering the duvet close, Q got up, wishing for all the world that he wasn’t still a slave to childhood fears. He’d go find Bond and reassure himself that Bond was at least still in the flat. If he was — _he has to be,_ a little voice whispered in the back of his head — Q would be able to go back to bed, with the lights on.

He didn’t let himself think about what would happen if Bond was gone.

 

~~~

 

Bond stared out the window, the view of London partially obscured by the reflection from the telly. Onscreen, Melanie was getting showered by glass as birds dive-bombed the phone booth where she’d taken shelter. The sound was off; Bond rarely bothered to listen to movies, once he’d memorised the dialogue.

He took a careful sip of scotch, pacing himself. He was tired — exhausted — but too caught up in his thoughts to sleep, especially with Q in his bed. But because of Q, he didn’t dare risk getting drunk enough to sleep. It was too likely that he’d slip into nightmare and end up scaring Q away — or worse.

Tanner had been wrong. Q was a threat to no one but himself. He’d been neglected, abused, possibly raped at some point, and then he’d built a life at MI6, only to have Silva’s blast destroy what comfort he’d found.

All while Bond had been flirting with death as far from England as he could get.

He tossed back the rest of the scotch and poured himself another without thinking about it. Why had Bond lived while M and Q — _his_ Q, the one who’d been there forever — died? He lifted the glass and looked down at his hand, remembering the light touch of a scorpion and the bitter burn of cheap alcohol that passed itself off as whisky only by colour.

Well, at least he’d been alive to take this job from Tanner. He could list a dozen other Double O agents who would’ve botched it after the first hour. They’d view Q’s evasive, skittish nature as some sort of latent guilt and have him hauled off to the psych team for evaluation and questioning, which would only make things worse for everyone. By the time they got through with Q, if he hadn’t been a threat to start with, he certainly would be.

Alarm prickled up Bond’s spine. For a moment, he thought it was his morbid train of thought. Then he heard the faint creak of the floor, accompanied by the subtle rattle of the light sconce in the hallway. The electrical fixture’s screws were loose, causing a brief, high squeal whenever weight hit the floorboard.

He lifted his head, searching the window glass. When he saw a shape reflected against the night sky, he asked without turning, “Something to drink?”

“I was just” — Q hesitated — “concerned. No, thank you. I think I’ll just go back to bed.”

Bond turned back. Wrapped up in the fluffy blue duvet, Q looked even more fragile. “Come here,” Bond said, remembering to set down the scotch. Being aware that he had a drinking problem was the first step to fixing it, or so the adage went. He just couldn’t be arsed to bother with step two.

“I didn’t mean to disturb. I’m just going to go back to bed.” Q backed up a step. “Good night.” His smile wasn’t very convincing as he turned back to the bedroom.

Bond looked after him, for once at a loss for words. Rather than watching Q leave, Bond turned back and picked up his scotch, listening to Q trying to be quiet as he walked back to the bedroom. He didn’t know the flat like Bond did; he had no idea where to step to avoid the creaks and rattles that came with any building.

Maybe Tanner had made a mistake after all in choosing Bond for this mission. Someone else — someone _younger_ — probably wouldn’t have skipped the actual threat assessment and personality evaluation and gone right to the shagging. Old habits. And the temptation... _fuck_. He’d never looked twice at Q before, but now that he knew that Q’s keen mind and attention to detail were matched by a sharp wit and what might well be a past as fucked-up as Bond’s own, Bond couldn’t stop thinking about him. Bond was just too old and too bloody dangerous to be trusted anywhere near someone like Q.

“Will you be —”

Bond damned near jumped out of his skin. He twisted around, body reacting naturally to a voice where there should have been none. The scotch in his hand went from being an emotional crutch to a weapon he could throw. He marked the position of every piece of furniture, every potential obstacle or weapon, between himself and the living room doorway where Q stood, tense and wide-eyed.

Despite the adrenaline blazing through his body, Bond’s hand didn’t shake at all as he forced himself to put the scotch down. Thank god he hadn’t been carrying a gun, or he would’ve drawn it by instinct alone.

Q tried valiantly to mask his nervousness. “I’m sorry. Shit. I really am going back to bed this time. I’m sorry —”

Sharply, Bond interrupted, “No.” Firmly telling his overtrained instincts that this _wasn’t_ combat, Bond took a step towards Q, saying more gently, “I’m sorry. You surprised me, and that never happens. Christ, you’re light on your feet. What were you saying?”

Q’s weight shifted back, away from Bond, but he stood his ground. Guilt flashed across his features again, but he schooled his reaction quickly. “I just want to know if you are going to pass the rest of the night out here. Waking up in a strange bed alone” — Q shrugged — “I wanted to know where you were.”

Bond almost asked if Q would rather have the bed to himself, but if that were the case, he wouldn’t have come back out. He remembered how nervous Q had been when Bond had asked him to wait alone in the living room. Outside the familiar territory of his flat or MI6, he probably needed company — _any_ company.

He picked up the remote and turned off the television, telling himself that this was just Q’s way of coping with an unfamiliar situation. There was no reason for Bond to read anything else into it.

He tossed the remote back down and went to where Q was waiting in the hallway. He was still tense and skittish. Bond instinctively reached to put a hand on his shoulder. Q allowed the touch, but Bond couldn’t help but notice how he carefully didn’t turn his back to Bond, keeping him in sight.

 _So much for trust,_ Bond thought, unsurprised. This wasn’t the first time he’d startled a lover into fearing him. Christ, he was too overtrained, too _damaged_ to be anywhere near civilians. He was regrettably practiced at dropping his hand from Q’s back without making it seem like anything but a natural, comfortable motion; it wasn’t as if they could walk through the bedroom doorway beside one another.

Every light in the bedroom was on, which was something of a surprise. When Bond realised he couldn’t sleep, he’d turned off the bedside light so he didn’t wake Q. Had Q been trying to find his glasses? How bad was his vision? Bond couldn’t recall seeing a prescription in Q’s file.

Bond closed the bedroom door and turned off the overhead lights, leaving only the bedside lights switched on. He took off his dressing gown and tossed it over the foot of the bed. Then he turned off the light on his side and got under the sheet. Q went around to the far side, untangling himself from the blanket, and set his glasses down on the table by his side of the bed. Bond made no assumptions about sharing until Q spread the blanket over them both.

“I really didn’t mean to startle you,” Q said quietly. Rather than turning off his bedside lamp, he moved over and got himself under the sheet as well, moving closer to Bond.

At the first touch of thin, cold fingers on his hand, Bond went still, suddenly aware of just how skittish Q seemed. He relaxed, allowing Q to lift his hand and set it trustingly in his hair. The long, dark strands were a tangled mess.

Bond curled his fingers, his throat suddenly tight, wondering what the hell Q was doing. The moment was so fragile, like a thin sheet of brittle glass; he felt like it would all shatter if he so much as breathed.

Then, achingly slowly, Q leaned in for a kiss as though afraid Bond would push him away.

Bond moved without thinking, one leg sliding over Q’s as he returned the kiss. He kept it civilised for bare seconds before his unfulfilled desire came crashing back through him. He licked at Q’s lips, shifting his weight even closer, almost pushing Q over onto his back. Q’s body had tensed completely, but he was obviously fighting it. At the feel of one sharp hip pressing against his abdomen, Bond caught himself and stopped a bit awkwardly.

Q stared up at him. “No, please don’t stop.” He finished the roll for Bond, eyes wide, trying to pull him in to resume the kiss.

Bond looked down at Q, feeling the tension in his body. He closed his eyes, remembering washing blood off Vesper’s hands — how she hadn’t pulled away, had let him take her wrist and kiss her fingers, but how every thin muscle had been tense. Then, he thought it nothing more than a natural reaction to the first time she’d ever seen death. Later, he’d realised she never would have let him anywhere near her, if she hadn’t been using him.

He had no reason to think Q a traitor. But he also had no reason to think Q _wanted_ this — not if he went tense every time Bond touched him.

Resolutely ignoring the urge to take what Q offered anyway, as if that would somehow prove Q _didn’t_ need to be afraid, Bond moved back onto his side. “I won’t hurt you, and I don’t expect anything from you,” he said as gently as he could manage.

Q closed the distance between them again. He hooked his leg over Bond’s, pulling him in, kissing his mouth and jaw a little desperately. “Damn it, Bond. You’re not the only one who gets startled,” he said with no small amount of annoyance.

Need blazed through Bond, hot and sudden and overwhelming and not even wholly sexual. He _wanted_ everything from Q, from his strange and skittish mannerisms and brilliant mind to his thin, entrancing, addictive body.

And he’d thought his drinking problem was bad.

Cursing Q’s persistence, he ignored his conscience and surrendered, kicking at the blankets so he could get on top of Q. Sharp bones dug into his body as they sorted themselves out, but bruises were a small price to pay to have him this close. Two hours ago, he’d convinced his body to stop urging him to take advantage of Q’s obvious willingness to ‘fix what went wrong’, or however he’d put it. Now, his body was awake and interested all over again.

“This is a mistake,” he said, and contradicted himself by laying a line of sharp bites over Q’s jaw. “If you had any sense, you wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

Q laughed, clutching Bond’s shoulders, lifting to meet Bond’s bites, and dealing a few of his own. “I don’t understand why you think we’re so different. I’m sure you’ve read my file, Bond. Think about it.”

Bond tensed momentarily. Why would Q assume Bond had read his file? Q was the hacker with access to every classified file in England, short of the Queen’s.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I read yours. Of course you found a way to read mine. You wouldn’t have bothered to let me give you direction on missions without having done your research.” Q attempted to draw his attention back with another desperate kiss.

Relieved, Bond gave in again. For once, Q was mistaken: Training had prompted Bond to trust the skinny young new Quartermaster, not a look at his file, but Bond let the error pass. It was flattering that Q thought Bond capable of actually getting his hands on Q’s file without having to actually shoot someone.

He’d go see Tanner first thing tomorrow morning and make him eat the bloody file if necessary to keep Q from ever finding out that this had all started because of an internal security investigation. That was none of Q’s concern, and _this_ was no one’s concern but theirs.

“I’m not a nice person, Q,” Bond’s conscience prompted him to say. The fact that he was kissing Q’s throat as he said it was a pointed example of how not-nice he was. “I’m not a _good_ person.”

“Do you think MI6 takes in nice, good people? Do you think the work would allow it?” Q was punctuating his sentences with upward thrusts of his hips and nails raking into Bond’s shoulderblades as if hanging on for his life. “Do you think I would have made it as far as I have if I were either of those things?’

Bond’s hand was still buried in Q’s hair, trapped between his head and the pillow. He pulled sharply, baring Q’s throat, and said, “I’m at least ten years too old for you,” before he bit as high up under Q’s jaw as he could.

For the first time in their encounter so far, a moan actually escaped Q’s swollen mouth. “Oh fuck, Bond, don’t stop.” He bent his knees and planted his feet back on the bed to get leverage to thrust up against Bond’s body. “If you’re so concerned about the _insignificant_ difference in our ages, allow me to remind you that my age might be the only reason I can actually keep up with you. Besides, I do outrank you, despite my youth.”

Bond’s head came up, and he stared down at Q, startled. “Did you just threaten to pull rank on me?”

Q glared back. “If I did, would it get you to shut up and fuck me already?”

“If anyone’s pulling rank here, it won’t be the civilian,” Bond snapped. He threw the blanket aside and deliberately rolled off Q, saying, “Go find the lube. God knows where it ended up when you pulled the blanket off.”

“No wonder why you secret agents need Q Branch. No situational awareness,” Q said, getting out of bed. He walked to the foot of the bed, bent down, and then tossed the bottle of lubricant up onto the blankets. Two more steps brought him to a condom that had fallen from the box which was presumably somewhere under the bed. “I’m a genius. I plan your missions for a living, Bond; I can certainly plan this.” He crawled back up onto the bed and laid down next to Bond, bedside lamp glowing on his pale skin.

“You’ve proven useful so far.” He rolled back onto his side and looked down the length of Q’s body. He’d always held back a little with his partners, but no one — not even that stick-thin Japanese model, whatever her name had been — had provoked this level of overprotectiveness in Bond. “I _really_ don’t want to hurt you,” he said, looking back up to meet Q’s eyes.

“For God’s sake, Bond. Just you fucking try.” Q’s hand once again rested on the side of Bond’s face. “I promise, I wouldn’t let you hurt me.”

Bond looked down at the scars and pale skin and the colourful tattoo. He ran a hand over Q’s hip, feeling the tissue-thin skin stretched like silk over his bones. His instinct was to protect Q from any sort of harm, but he remembered too clearly how beautifully Q had responded all night. The rougher Bond treated him, the more he gave himself over. The more he _wanted_.

Silently, Bond decided that no matter what happened after tonight he’d keep an eye on Q, and nothing — not the bloody Queen herself — could stop Bond from destroying anyone who hurt him.

Q’s hand tightened on Bond’s face. “Have you made up your mind yet? Because I really do want you inside me. Now.”

Bond looked back up, meeting Q’s eyes. “Turn over.”


	7. Chapter 7

Q was absolutely certain that as he stood at his desk in Q Branch the next morning, he was smiling the smile of a cat that had got the mouse. His Earl Grey steamed delightfully in his left hand, he was typing away on his computer with his right, and he was, for the first time in recent memory, not deeply dissatisfied. As much as he hated to admit it, and as much as it seemed like a sad cliche from a romcom movie, Bond had had a big part in it.

First, Bond had kept the world at bay for six straight hours yesterday while he allowed Q to do one of the things he loved best — tinker. It calmed and centered him in a way that hacking alone couldn’t. Q suspected it was the satisfaction of a tangible end result that boosted his psyche, and it led him to one of this morning’s first projects: create a priority list for daily time expenditure. After considering the possibilities, he decided to indulge with at least thirty percent of his day dedicated to hands-on R&D less than ten percent for emails and meetings each; twenty percent for coding or hacking when necessary; another twenty percent reluctantly for administrative duties; and the final ten percent unallocated. Given that his work days tended to hover around the fourteen-hour mark, he considered the allocations satisfactory.

Second, Bond had offered Q surprisingly helpful advice on how to deal with the repressive mountain of paperwork that had drowned both his schedule and his imagination. He might actually meet his goal of keeping it down to twenty percent of his day if he were able to find enough helpers in the department. He had spent some time this morning processing what he knew about his technicians into a Q Branch employee skill-set matrix. It was far from complete, but it was a good start.

Third, dinner had been unexpectedly delightful and relaxing. He got to share in the memories of M and Q, even learning new things along the way. He missed them terribly, and being able to pad his memories with new facts from others helped somehow.

And finally, of course, the sex... Oh god, the sex. It had ended up being a little more vanilla than he’d expected, but it also hadn’t set off any of his triggers. Bond hadn’t tied him up and left him, or tried to humiliate him into ridiculous submission, or pinned him down and made him answer questions about the stories carved into his skin. More, Bond had allowed him to fully indulge in his craving for skin-to-skin contact in way that hadn’t been possible for him in a long time. He’d spent far too much time in the R&D labs these last ten years, rarely bothering to make the effort to visit nightclubs or find other ways to pick up men. Last night’s indulgence was like his first hit of sensory immoderation, and _my god_ did the come-down feel amazing.

Still caught up in that high, Q scrolled through his projects list, prioritising them according to his interests and their potential applications in the field. For much of the morning, the possibilities felt endless and infinite.

Inevitably, though, his too-sharp mind was finally forced to face the issue he’d been avoiding: the possible fallout.

He was relatively certain that Bond would invite him back into his bed again soon. Bond had clearly enjoyed himself, and had breathlessly described plans to expand on those enjoyments. But Q was no fool. He knew Bond’s reputation. It was all very, very temporary.

And as good as Q felt now, riding out the residual high and the potential to get back in touch with the parts of his job that made life at MI6 bearable, he was sure it wasn’t going to last. Bond would get over his infatuation, and Q would have no glorious fantasies or day-after memories to keep his mind distracted during the hours he couldn’t afford to dedicate to the research that was his true love.

Without Bond to distract him from paperwork and meetings and employee evaluations and budgets and the soul-crushing responsibility of being a branch lead, Q would sink back into a mire of dissatisfaction and despair.

He briefly toyed with the notion of just _telling_ Bond, but squashed the idea immediately. Bond was a field agent first, a Lothario second, and an MI6 employee with a great deal to gain from his association with the new quartermaster third. This wasn’t romance; it was practicality, an exchange of favours on both sides.

And if Bond knew the truth of how deep Q’s boredom went — of how close Q was to being a liability... Well, Bond’s loyalties were clear. He’d dedicated his life to serving England. He wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate any threat, and after Silva’s treachery, a dissatisfied computer genius was perhaps more of a threat than anyone had ever imagined. Bond wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

It was a sobering thought, but one that served a purpose: It wiped the satisfied-cat grin off his face.

 

~~~

 

“Bond! James, you can’t —” was as far as Moneypenny got before Bond was into Tanner’s office, closing the door behind him.

Tanner’s head jerked up. He was still holding the phone to his ear, cable stretched across the desk as he reached for a file on a side table. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him immediately,” Tanner said, giving Bond a death-glare that was mediocre at best.

Bond sat down. Better men than Tanner had tried to kill him with their thoughts alone. It never worked.

“I expect he’ll be out of his meeting shortly, sir,” Tanner said reassuringly as he finally snatched up the folder with his fingertips. He rolled his chair back to his desk. With one more, “Yes, sir,” he hung up.

“You’re an idiot,” Bond told him. He waited until Tanner’s eyes met his before adding, “Sir.”

Tanner sighed and put a hand questioningly on the control drawer for his security access. When Bond nodded, Tanner rose and said, “Since no one’s shooting, I assume it can wait one minute. Don’t answer that.” He took the file and circled around his desk. A moment later, he’d left the office, and Bond heard Moneypenny buzz open the door to M’s sanctum.

Bond got up from his chair and helped himself to some of Tanner’s scotch, despite the early hour. Technically, it was still last night for him — he’d dozed a bit while holding Q in his arms, but hadn’t actually slept. Q was already skittish enough without having Bond’s nightmares to contend with. Besides, just watching Q breathe had captivated Bond in a way that left him baffled.

The sex had been good. Honestly, the sex had been very good — the type of ‘very good’ that would cross over into ‘bloody phenomenal’ once they got to know one another a bit more. Watching Q’s self-control shatter had appealed to Bond’s deep need to connect and control and captivate. Holding off as long as he did had only served to make the experience of sinking balls-deep into Q’s body, tight and hot and full of electric tension, that much more satisfying, more overwhelming, more _everything_.

A bit uncomfortably, Bond got up from his seat and paced to look at the bland Monet reproduction on Tanner’s wall. He used the excuse to adjust himself in his trousers and to firmly tell his body that now was not the time for arousal. He was going to give Tanner his mission report and then go find a desk somewhere far from Q Branch so he could finish the bloody incident report regarding the Ferrari he’d blown up. He wouldn’t see Q at all today; he’d give it a day and wait till tomorrow.

The thought sobered him. Ruthlessly, he quashed the voice that suggested he could go see Q before starting on his incident report — just to make certain Q was doing all right this morning.

Ten minutes passed before Tanner was back. He gave the scotch a look but made no comment. Instead he initiated the cold room protocols. Once the room was secure, he asked, “Now, do you have a proper report, or are we just insulting one another in private, Bond?”

“Edwards isn’t a security risk. He’s not going to sell us out to the Chinese or blow up headquarters for a record third time in one year,” Bond said bluntly. He finished his drink and set the glass on the edge of Tanner’s desk. “He’s _mourning_.”

“What?”

“Boothroyd was something of a father figure to him.”

Tanner blew out a breath, shoulders slumping. “Christ. Well, that’s a relief. Counseling will help —”

“Counseling will just piss him off,” Bond predicted, thinking that there wasn’t a counselor alive who’d be able to match wits with Q. “Three months ago, yes. It’s too late now.”

“That’s ridiculous. We have an entire department who can help with this,” Tanner said confidently.

Bond shook his head. “Let me deal with it.”

The words startled them both. Bond just hid it better. So much for his intention to stay away from Q for a little while.

Tanner’s expression was much slower to move from surprise to suspicion to something like resignation. “You’re _volunteering_ for extra work outside your —”

“I’m _offering_ to help a” — Bond’s hesitation was minuscule — “friend.”

Tanner’s breath was loud in the silence. He finally leaned back in his thoughts and gave a curt nod. “Fine,” he finally said, reaching out to the cold room controls, though he didn’t actually disengage the system just yet. “Before you get started on that, you might also want to review the org chart, 007. So far as I’m aware, field agents still don’t outrank the Chief of Staff.”

Bond grinned. “Makes your near-miss with our quartermaster all the more shocking, doesn’t it?” he asked, and went for the door.

“Don’t fail, Bond,” Tanner advised. “We’ve lost enough people this year.”

Bond looked back and nodded. When the security systems disengaged with a loud _thunk_ , he opened the door and said, “I don’t fail.”

 

~~~

 

Since Q’s door latch opened to a touch, Bond didn’t bother to knock. He let himself into the office, noting that this time Q was actually typing with his usual rapid-fire speed rather than just standing there. For a moment, as Bond regarded his back, the afterimage of last night flashed in his memory, superimposing pale, scarred skin and a truly gorgeous tattoo over the bland clothes Q had put on after Bond had dropped him off this morning.

Then Q looked back over his shoulder, his smile genuine, if a bit reserved. “Good morning, 007. You were truly inspiring yesterday. Would you like to see what I’ve been up to this morning?” He slid a few inches to the right, clearly inviting Bond into his workspace.

Bond crossed the room, shoes loud on the uncarpeted tile that filled all of Q Branch — something about static and dust. “There’s a first,” he said, moving close behind Q, off to one side just enough that his position wouldn’t seem too outrageously improper, should anyone observe them from the glass wall overlooking the cubicle farm. “I may have to decline a second time, if I’m expected to live up to ‘inspiring’. I wouldn’t want to disappoint,” he said quietly.

“I hope you’re not the one disappointed when I show you what you’ve wrought,” Q chuckled, pulling up several spreadsheets in quick succession on his screens. “Most people don’t find spreadsheets enticing, I’m afraid.” He brushed shoulders with Bond, a move that could easily be explained by the closeness required for them to both see through the privacy screen, and tapped his finger gently at the monitor. “This is a skills-matrix for my technicians. I’ll need your promised assistance in filling it out.”

He’d hardly expected Q to avoid him, but his willingness to stay dangerously close at work was a pleasant surprise. Bond rested a hand on the workstation and leaned in. With every breath, he felt the press of Q’s arm against his chest. “I don’t know most of them, but I can go one better,” he offered, turning to speak very softly into Q’s ear. “I can get Moneypenny to give you copies of their personnel files — with that horrid skillset testing we all went through.”

Q looked up at him, surprised. “I managed to escape skillset testing when I first started working here.  Do you think it means that they think I’m good at everything?” he asked cheekily. The he sighed over-dramatically. “You probably mean paper files, don’t you? I thought this was about getting out of paperwork.”

Bond considered the sightlines from the glass wall. They were all the way across the room, and the drop down to the cubicle farm was high enough that they’d be invisible to anyone who wasn’t actually up on the balcony outside the office. He moved more directly behind Q, as though to get a better angle to see through the privacy filter on his monitor, and let his hand slide across the workstation to rest on the back of Q’s hand. Carefully, he curled his fingers around, brushing over the sensitive skin on the inside of Q’s wrist.

“You have to have _one_ tech who’s not good with explosives,” he said, watching his breath stir Q’s hair. “Would you rather sort through paper files yourself or have someone else type up the data?”

“Hmmm...” It wasn’t clear whether Q was responding to Bond’s touch or to the question itself, and despite being in an office that basically amounted to a fishbowl, Q didn’t pull away or push Bond back. “Well, I confess that the prospect of combing through the personal files of my technicians appeals to me in a voyeuristic sort of way, but for the sake of efficiency, I think I’ll hand it over. It will only take moments to sync the data and paint a picture fairly quickly. In fact, developing an algorithm that plots skills and compares them to a quick and dirty Q Branch needs-assessment might turn out to be fun distraction.”

“Actually, Quartermaster, I’m afraid I’ll need your services for the rest of the morning, if not longer,” Bond said with cheerfully false innocence in his tone. He pressed his fingers over Q’s pulse. “You can book the firing range, can’t you?”

Q didn’t pull his wrist out from Bond’s grasp. His pulse picked up, though none of his excitement showed in his face or demeanour. “Firing range?” He turned to tap at another spreadsheet, this one a percentage-filled and neatly bulleted list of daily activities. “If you can justify its place on this time allocation worksheet of mine, I certainly can.”

“Book the range, Q,” Bond said softly. “Then we’re going to the armoury to check out one of everything and enough ammunition that we don’t have to leave the range until it’s time for dinner. Isn’t your first priority to support the agents of the Double O programme?” He turned to face Q, lips just an inch away from his ear. “Shooting is a mission-critical skill. As our top data analyst, shouldn’t you be there to gather data firsthand?”

“In that case, I should probably bring my laptop.” A tiny little shiver, caused by the tension of the self-control Bond was so mercilessly testing, ran through Q’s small frame. “When do you want me to meet you?”

“Ten minutes. I’ll meet you at the armoury,” Bond said, curling his fingers enough to scrape his nails across the inside of Q’s wrist just hard enough to make him flinch. Then he let go, turned, and started for the door. “I’ll send one of your techs to Moneypenny to get the files. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”

“My god. You certainly do learn what people like quickly, don’t you?” Q called quietly after him.

“Only when it matters,” Bond said as he glanced back. He didn’t bother to mention that he shot the ones who didn’t. Q wasn’t a liability, and Bond was glad he’d be able to leave those sorts of threats unspoken.

 

~~~

 

It was a mark of how twisted Bond’s life was that he found the smell of gunpowder comforting. The shooting range lacked the adrenaline-thrill of firing while someone was shooting back; instead, he found target practice relaxing. He pushed his skills in a way that he couldn’t do in the field, moving the targets farther back, testing himself beyond optimal range for any given weapon.

He spent most of his time with the Walther he’d taken from his personal equipment locker, though he and Q had carried a small militia’s worth of arms into the range. The rifles were arrayed across two shooting lanes to the left; handguns took up three lanes to the right, just beyond where Q had set up his laptop one lane over from Bond.

After finishing the last magazine left-handed, Bond safed his weapon and stepped out of his lane to peer at Q. He was contentedly reviewing Bond’s numbers fed to his laptop from the range’s complex auto-scoring system; Q had spent five minutes stringing a cable from his laptop up to the corner of the room, where he’d skewed a ceiling tile to get at the wiring overhead.

Normally, the range had wireless data capabilities, but apparently he’d been serious when he said he was blacking out the range completely. The thought that the cameras behind each shooting lane were dead made Bond regret not preparing for a more intimate afternoon. He could name a half dozen people at MI6 likely to have condoms in desks or purses or lockers, but asking for them would raise questions he didn’t feel like answering.

“Your turn,” Bond said when Q finally looked up from his laptop.

“Before I disappoint you,” Q said slowly, “you should know I’m not a very good shot.” He stood and stretched, shaking out his shoulders, arms, and wrists before stepping towards Bond. “And I’ve never been a fan of recoil, either.” 

“You have to learn to ride it out, that’s all.” Bond picked up the Walther and the empty magazines and brought them to the other side of Q’s lane. “You can start light, with the .22, if you’d prefer.” He closed the Walther’s slide, holstered it, and set down the magazines to start reloading them.

Q raised his eyebrow. “Is the .22 actually capable of stopping anything larger than a bunny?” He picked up the weapon anyway, smirking. “To be honest, I’ve never really understood why the MI6 arsenal includes them. Seems rather pointless, really.”

Bond smirked. “A single .22 round to the abdomen or head will bounce around without exiting. I’ve seen people who died weeks later from a slow internal bleed caused by a .22. Bigger calibre isn’t always more effective. And a .22 can be fired even if you’ve got a damned broken wrist,” he added, flinching inwardly at the memory.

“Indeed.” Q set the weapon down for a moment. He had to take off his hearing protectors to put his safety glasses on instead of his regular glasses. The safety glasses were prescription, yellowed lenses slightly thicker than the plain ones Bond wore. “I’ll thank you not to comment on what this has done to my hair. I assure you, I’m quite aware of it already.”

“I promise, any comment I might be tempted to make is entirely negated by how much I’ve come to _enjoy_ this absurd hairstyle of yours,” Bond promised, running his hand up the back of Q’s neck and over his skull, letting his fingers get tangled in the strands. When Q shivered pleasantly, Bond reached past him to pick up a couple of magazines for the .22. Then he let his hand fall away, and brought Q to his firing lane, where he used the controls to bring the target back for a fifteen-foot shot.

He fitted his body behind Q’s, doing his best to both show Q how to load the magazine — unnecessarily — and to get in his way with light touches on his wrists and palms. With the hearing protectors in place, there was no temptation to bite at his ear, but Bond considered it anyway.

Q was a genius and a weapons designer, but he didn’t seem to take offence at the guiding caresses at all. In fact, he leaned back, slotting himself into Bond’s larger frame. “I don’t think this is proper shooting posture, Bond. Or perhaps that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all this time,” he said smoothly.

“Possibly, yes,” Bond said, finally pulling his hands back to rest lightly on Q’s forearms. A bit more seriously, he lifted Q’s hands a half inch and said, “Relax. There’s no recoil. No flash, barely any sound. Nothing to anticipate.” He dropped one hand to rest on Q’s abdomen, saying, “Press against my hand as you breathe in. Never from the chest — always from the gut, slowly.”

“Control my breathing? With you, doing this? Bloody unlikely, that,” Q muttered, though he tried to do as Bond asked. He stood there for several moments, waiting, breathing from the diaphragm, until he finally snickered. “I feel like I’m in a yoga class.”

“Touch the trigger. Keep breathing,” he said, relaxing his hands so he was just lightly touching. “Don’t anticipate — don’t think. Just breathe and pull your finger back.”

Apparently that wasn’t exactly what Q wanted to hear. He pulled back, laughing, though he was careful not to move the muzzle of the gun away from the target. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Don’t anticipate? Don’t think? This is _me_.” His laughter deepened as he looked at Bond’s bemused expression. “Honestly, Bond. I build these things. Do you have any idea the schematics and calculations that instantly come to mind the moment I even look at a gun? The ideas for potential modifications?” His amusement had his shoulders shaking. “Christ.”

Bond laughed, shaking his head. He put a hand over Q’s wrists and pressed down, lowering the muzzle while keeping the weapon pointed downrange. With his other hand, he caught Q’s hair and turned him enough for a kiss that he meant to be hard and fast, though it somehow turned warmly affectionate. 

“As much as I hope you don’t have a gun kink...” Q said, pulling away with a crooked smile.

 _Gun kink?_ Bond wondered with some alarm. He was open-minded enough to shock almost anyone, but he had limits. “Hardly,” he answered.

“Then I doubt you should be kissing me while I’m holding onto a loaded weapon with the safety off.”

“Which is why I’m controlling it,” Bond admitted wryly, pressing his fingers against Q’s hands, lowering the muzzle another quarter inch. Then he stepped back, turning Q to face downrange again. “Right. Let’s do this differently. Take aim.” Q couldn’t suppress a chuckle as he did as Bond asked, settling back into his carefully braced stance. Bond got his arms around Q — transparent excuse or not, he did want to keep Q stable — and said, “This time, while you’re remembering to breathe properly, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“.22 caliber LR Rimfire, modified Sport Series Model 22A, by Smith and Wesson.” Q settled carefully into Bond’s embrace, staring down the range at the target. “Calculating factors involved in assuring target accuracy, including wind, air density, weapon construction, hand steadiness, et cetera. I hope you don’t mind if I skip over the actual calculations; it takes more time for me to describe than it does to actually compute.”

“Start pulling the trigger, slowly,” Bond said, barely interrupting the flow of Q’s speech. The insight into his thoughts was fascinating, but he couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted, at least not for these first few shots.

“Imagining weapons modification. Potential for hidden explosives in various parts of the gun — unlikely due to grip size. Calculating possibility for concealing other useful items, such as tracking devices, dismissed due to low benefit analysis. Imaging the shape and size of a .22 round, and possibilities for modifications. Listening devices. Explosives. Memory sticks. Poison capsules —”

He cut off abruptly as his finger reached the trigger’s break point. The gunshot was a startling _pop_ that made Q flinch in surprise. He lowered the muzzle a couple of inches, scanning the target. The newest hole was at the edge of the target, down and to the right of the centre.

“Good,” Bond said, touching Q’s arms to lift them. “Again. Don’t worry about aiming. Just let your body learn where the trigger pull is.”

Q shook his arms and wrists, then started to aim again. “That makes sense. I should logically know where that point is, really. I have the gun’s characteristics memorised. Right now, I’m, visualizing the internal mechanisms, examining the rate at which I pull the trigger, and picturing the chain reaction it causes; the rate and pressure needed to —”

This time, the _pop_ was less startling for Q, who let out a little laugh when he saw the newest hole in the target was closer to the centre.

Bond pulled Q’s body close. “Better. Want to try it on your own?”

“Not particularly. The shooting itself isn’t what I’m finding pleasant about this exercise. Besides, I’m not a field agent. I don’t have any particular inclination to be a crack shot.”

“Twice this year, HQ has been directly assaulted,” Bond said, his arms tightening protectively. “You’re going to get good enough with a weapon that you can start keeping one in your office. You’re not meant to play assassin, but you _are_ going to get proficient enough that you can evade capture long enough to escape.”

Q shrugged in Bond’s arms. “I could say something about my proficiency with micro-explosions and well-timed grenades, but I’m afraid that might trigger a lecture from you about not wanting to deal with the trouble of having to rebuild headquarters a third time.” He took aim downrange again. “Now I’m thinking about the necessity of the trigger itself, inasmuch as it’s a factor in proper execution of a shot. It adds unnecessary variables —”

The next discharge barely made Q flinch. “Again,” Bond said.

Q nodded. “Variables,” he continued, “such as drag and hand motion. I wonder if replacing it with a fingerprint reader would increase or decrease accuracy, and whether the cost benefit —” he fired, continuing without prompting — “ratio would make it a worthwhile investigation. I’m also wondering if such a sensitive scanner would prove far too flawed to stand up to the field conditions that can damage them.” Another shot. “Probably a bad idea, now that I’ve thought it through.”

“Q,” Bond interrupted gently, his eyes on the target.

He stopped and looked at the target. “Oh,” he said with some surprise. Rather than a silhouette target, Bond had put up a page of concentric rings. Q’s latest shot actually hit inside the outermost ring. “Well, isn’t that a pleasant surprise.” He looked down at the gun curiously.

“See?” Bond stepped back — maybe Q had been able to block out his distractions, but Bond was reaching a threshold that would soon require either a cold shower or a much more pleasant solution. “Keep at it. You can stop after you’ve fired those two magazines.”

Q’s disappointment at the loss of contact was obvious, but he nodded and turned back. The next shot didn’t hit the target at all. “Damn. You’ve changed the variables. Sorry, I just need to make the appropriate adjustments.”

Bond grinned, moving two lanes over to start reloading the magazines he’d emptied. “I doubt you’re going to have to actually defend yourself in the middle of sex. It doesn’t happen as frequently as one might imagine, even in MI6.” Then he leaned back and asked, “Gun kink?”

Q’s next shot was close to the ring, but still not inside it. “No, thank you,” he said dryly. “I also think I’m going to return to my inner monologues rather than blurting them out, if you don’t mind. It might reduce your estimation of me to discover I dream up and summarily dismiss more than ninety percent of my ideas before they even make it to a project requisition form. The absolute absurdity of some of them...” Q shook his head as he made his way through the first magazine.

Bond kept one eye on Q’s shooting as he worked rounds into the empty magazines. More than once, Bond had tricked new junior agents into coming with him to the range just so they could reload for him. He’d got written up for it, but the hit on his personnel file — one of many — had been worth it.

He was surprisingly relaxed; usually, he got twitchy when someone else was firing a weapon near him. Ally, enemy, stranger — it really didn’t matter to his subconscious. Maybe it was just the fact that no one actually brought a .22 into the field; it was a ‘safe’ weapon, despite his earlier speech about the damage it could do. Or maybe it was just Q.

He listened as Q switched out the magazines, no help needed. He was probably engineering some advanced alternative or some autoloading feature to make target shooting more efficient. Understandable.

When Q was finally finished, Bond pushed his hearing protection down around his neck. “Did you want to try something with a bit more power?”

Q smiled wickedly. “If it will amuse you, and you’ll be there to help absorb the recoil,” he said, handing Bond the .22 and the empty magazines.

“You’re determined to test my self-control, aren’t you?” Bond asked, picking up a heavier SIG Sauer 9mm. As soon as he got behind Q, his body resumed making less-than-subtle suggestions, all of which led in the direction of getting rid of clothing. Ignoring himself, Bond put the SIG in Q’s hands and said, “It’s only a nine-mil. It’s heavier, but not that much more than the .22.”

Q tested the weight of it, smiling. “You know, testing your self-control is very possibly the only action here whose outcome I can’t accurately calculate. To be honest, I find shooting dull, monotonous, if jarring from a sensory perspective. I’d be just as happy, if not more so, over there,” he said, nodding to the laptop, “if you weren’t a variable.”

“Satisfy me that you’re safe and competent with the nine, and I’ll leave you to your data,” Bond offered.

“Satisfy _you_?” Q gave him a mock sigh of resignation, loading the clip. “Well, if I must.”

Bond grinned, moving his ear protectors back into place. He cupped his hands around Q’s forearms again and asked, “When were you last at Medical for testing?”

Q blinked and lowered the weapon a bit. “I, uh...” His expression hovered between thoughtfulness and incredulousness. “Really, at a firing range? Freud would be so impressed,” Q smirked before falling back into thoughtfulness. “It’s been awhile, but I haven’t engaged in any risky behaviour since then, so I’m clean. And anyway, isn’t it part of MI6 employees’ required annual battery of testing?”

“Maybe when you live at a desk,” Bond said wryly. He understood the need to ensure that the field agents hadn’t brought some entertaining new form of ebola back to UK soil after every mission, but sometimes he thought that Medical was privately funding genetic research using the blood of the Double O agents. He pointedly lifted Q’s arms again, returning him to a stronger firing stance, and said, “Unless I’m going to make it a habit to carry condoms to work, it’s a perfectly reasonable question. Because that’s the only thing keeping me from taking you right here and now.”

Q’s breath caught and he fired four rounds in quick succession, all of which landed impressively inside the outer target ring. “I can pull my medical records to check,” he said, nodding towards his laptop. 

“And in violation of government privacy, you can probably get mine as well, hm? Keep firing.”

“There are very, very few databases in Britain that I don’t have sanctioned access to.” He fired another four rounds, and these landed even closer together, creeping towards the center. “One of the initial conditions of my employment, in fact.”

“Do you have a cat? Any other pets?”

“No, of course not. I don’t spend enough time at my flat to attend to a houseplant, let alone an animal.” Q continued firing. “Why? Are you allergic?”

“Pre-emptive strike,” Bond said. “I’m making sure you have no excuse not to come home with me again tonight.”

Q’s distraction at that statement was obvious not in his expression or body language, but in the fact that he emptied the magazine and let it click a sixteenth time. Bond suspected he wasn’t normally the type to lose count of how many rounds he’d fired nor to forget how many the magazine held.

As Q stared downrange, his mind clearly distracted, Bond pulled off his hearing protection and ducked his head to nip at the back of Q’s neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I can’t decide if you’re a genius, or just bloody cruel. It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning,” Q admonished, setting the gun carefully down before turning. But the stern look vanished quickly, one of amusement taking its place.

“If that’s how you’re going to be, back to your laptop.” Bond gave Q a sharp slap on the hip. “I’m starting on rifles.”

But to Bond’s surprise, Q stepped forward instead of away from him. With gentle (if cold) hands, he removed the protective gear first from himself, then from Bond. “I went to a great deal of trouble to put this range into blackout and lockdown.” Fingertips carefully found their way under Bond’s collar, teasing over his throat. “I do expect to get something out of it other than innuendo.”

The kiss was gentle, slow, and unexpected. Then again, predictability was boring, and Q was anything but. Bond closed his eyes and gave in, thinking that he never would have expected Q to actually _want_ more here, at work.

He finally ended the kiss by holding Q in place and stepping back. “Clear the bench,” he said, nodding at the SIG and magazines. When Q turned to gather everything up, Bond went to the sink by the door. He turned on the faucet and started scrubbing at his hands; he might not have bothered, but Q could probably recite the chemical composition of the gunpowder residue that covered them both. Even one shot deposited fine, toxic particles everywhere, but Bond wasn’t about to lose their privacy in favor of going to the showers.

He scrubbed as best he could, dried his hands, and went back to the firing lane. Q had moved everything aside and stood watching him. His gaze was expectant but not impatient, and there was only the least hint of nervousness in the quick glances he threw at the doors. He stood in front of the firing bench, one hand brushing the edge as if anchoring himself there. His tension seemed to be equal parts eagerness and interest, though his arousal had faded.

Determined to change that, Bond crowded Q back against the bench, leaning his left hand against the edge. With his right, he brushed down the front of Q’s shirt, following the line of buttons until he reached the dull grey cardigan. “I need to get you in a proper dinner jacket,” he said, momentarily distracted by what a good tailor could do for Q’s fashion sense. At least the shirt under the cardigan was more bold than bland, a rich green colour that turned his eyes from hazel to darker green.

“There is a story behind the way I dress, but I don’t suppose I can convince you to wait to hear it another time?” Q responded, threading his own hands under Bond’s jacket to slide smoothly above the shirt.

Bond combed his fingers through Q’s hair before tipping his head to the side with a tug. “Distract me,” he challenged, leaning in to taste Q’s skin, a slow swipe of his tongue from Q’s collarbone to his jaw.

“You know that’s just an invitation for me to start talking, right?” But instead, Q stepped backwards on the firing bench’s bottom piece to get a foot up, and make a small jump onto the surface. It brought their hips into perfect alignment, and Q didn’t hesitate to pull Bond into a waist-to-chest embrace. After allowing a moment to simply breathe together, Q’s hands fisted into Bond’s shirt at his shoulders, and he pulled Bond into a much deeper, much more passionate kiss than the first one.

Bond grinned to himself and gave in to the kiss. There was something refreshingly undemanding about Q, despite the passion between them. With Q, Bond didn’t feel a sense of urgency — the expectation that the whole point of foreplay was to get past it as quickly as possible. He’d planned on waiting until tonight, with a proper bed and privacy, but some contrary part of him definitely enjoyed the idea of stripping Q’s mental defences here at work, in the most secure building in London. He just had to figure out how far Q would let him push.


	8. Chapter 8

So much for data collection, Q thought as Bond kissed him.

Not that Q minded, of course. He really was getting bored with the shooting. He loved guns but didn’t care for the act of shooting them: the pop, the recoil, the unimpressive reaction typically too quick and too far away to enjoy. Being pressed from mouth to waist together with this force of a man who had so suddenly invaded every aspect of his life was much, _much_ better.

He desperately wanted to both move things forward but simultaneously slow them down — he wanted his hands under Bond’s shirt to revel in the warmth and hot skin they’d find there, but he didn’t know how far or fast Bond wanted to take this. Bond’s insistent grind of his hips was delicious and spoke of a willingness for something more, but they were at work, for god’s sake.

Q’s head turned fractionally for what must have been the fifth time as he checked the sealed door to the range.

“We’re safe,” Bond said without lifting his mouth from his slow, lavish exploration of Q’s throat. He dropped one hand from Q’s body, patting down his own jacket before he came up with his mobile. He turned away just long enough to unlock it and show the lack of text messages and email notifications. “No one’s looking for either of us.”

“Safe is such a stupidly relative term, Bond.”

Bond tossed the mobile down on the bench and nipped at Q’s throat. “Point taken. HQ is likely to come under attack — we’re probably overdue, given our recent record — so we’re not ‘safe’. However, no one’s likely to come looking for us, and there are three other ranges that aren’t reserved if some other field agent gets bored. Satisfied?”

Q wanted to be. Logically, he knew Bond was right. But factors and variables and one-in-a-hundred possibilities — which weren’t all that statistically unlikely, when you started stacking them together — kept a tally of percentages running behind his eyes. 

Then, as Bond moved his extremely talented mouth towards Q’s collarbone, Q dug past the possibilities and went straight to the consequences. What would happen? He’d be embarrassed, sure, but the effects would probably be temporary. The remaining possibilities (being sacked, being given leave, being demoted) weren’t really all that fear-inspiring, either. Satisfied that the consequences were worth the action, he let go and didn’t object when Bond started to unbutton his shirt. He shivered slightly, telling himself it was because Bond’s fingers were cold from washing his hands.

Bond moved more quickly than last night, though the goal seemed to be the same: to strip off Q’s clothing, despite the fact that they were in the upper sublevel of MI6, rather than the relative safety of Bond’s flat. When he finally got Q’s shirt unbuttoned, he backed away enough to undo the cuffs. Then he met Q’s eyes, studying his expression, before he lifted his hands to pull the layers back over Q’s shoulders.

Q suddenly realized that his earlier comment might have been misinterpreted. “Bond, I didn’t mean to imply that we had to...” Q shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts at Bond’s gentle caress over his wrist. He didn’t want Bond to think he’d pushed him into anything, insisting on something Bond wasn’t actually comfortable with. He hadn’t really been asking for sex in the first place — snogging and close contact was what he’d really been after.

Ignoring Q, Bond bared Q’s right shoulder, then his left, and pushed the sleeves down his arms, leaving the puddle of fabric trapped around his hands.

Q freed himself from the layers, insisting, “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to push into doing something stupid at the workplace. We don’t have to —” He cut off with a gasp when Bond leaned against the bench, ducked his head, and bit his left nipple just hard enough to sting.

Q decided, in that particular moment, what his favorite thing about the agent was. Not his obscenely well-muscled frame, nor his boyish grin or big ears, nor his habit of saying or doing just the right thing when it needed to be done. Bond had a very special power over Q (and others, he supposed, though he wasn’t inclined to think about it at the moment), and that power was one of _distraction_.

In micro-moments like these, and on the grander macro scale of Q’s overall dissatisfaction, Bond had been able to consistently and with very little effort pull Q out of his destructive trains of thought and onto new and much more interesting paths. Granted, it had only been two days, but a hell of two days.

For that, even if it only lasted for whatever short period of time _he_ could hold _Bond’s_ attention, Q decided he’d give him nearly anything.

So he groaned appreciatively, leaned back, and closed his bloody eyes.

Bond’s exhale carried a low growl that felt satisfied, even smug. He licked at Q’s stinging nipple before he bit again, this time more lightly. Then he drew back just a bit and tugged almost playfully before he went back to licking, venturing away to explore Q’s chest in random, idle patterns that defied Q’s attempts to predict where he’d touch next.

 _Perfect_ , his mind rumbled in a mix of satisfaction and annoyance. Just when he’d decided to relax, to let go, Bond’s approach was reintroducing tension into their encounter. Q didn’t believe in true random in the behaviour of humans, but Bond was going from unblemished patches of skin to scars to the tattoo with absolutely no predictability. And he wasn’t treating each with any consistency either — he’d bite the scars just as hard as untouched skin, then move on to the tattoo with a disinterested lick. His hands weren’t seeking out landmarks on Q’s skin, either. Their paths were just as unpredictable.

It was absolutely maddening and wonderful.

Having his eyes closed, unable to determine potential new paths from visual indicators, made it so much more intense. He was a trembling mess under Bond’s capricious movements, but just when he was about to open his eyes, restore some order and predictability, Bond’s hands slid expertly to the button of his trousers.

His heart rate spiked, his body stiffened, and his hands flew down to cover Bond’s. It wasn’t that he didn’t want what was coming next, but he needed a moment to come back down from being so thoroughly and expertly overwhelmed.

 

~~~

 

Caught up in his slow, thorough exploration of Q’s body, Bond was surprised when Q stopped him. He twitched his hands away and stepped back, for one moment wondering if he’d been so focused on Q’s physical responses that he’d missed a softly spoken ‘no’ or ‘stop’. Q was trembling in a way Bond had taken as a positive sign. His breathing was ragged, pale face and chest flushed.

His eyes were closed, though, which struck Bond as odd; last night, he’d insisted on watching nearly everything he could.

Very lightly, Bond touched Q’s face. “Q.”

Q’s hand came up to grip his, to press it harder to his warm temple. “I’m sorry. I just need a moment.” His eyes finally opened and grinned ruefully at Bond. “It’s just locked up very tightly in here, and I thought I could try with my eyes closed, but the sensations...” He took a deep breath and pulled Bond back down. “I just needed a moment. You’re entirely too unpredictable.”

What the hell was it like for Q, living that way? Bond almost asked before considering that neither of them was ready for a conversation like that — especially not here and now. Instead, he thought fast and finally said teasingly, “It’s your own fault. I’m doing all the work here.”

That provoked a surprised but not unhappy huff from Q, whose face suddenly lit up in a wicked grin. “Your turn to be completely overwhelmed with sensation, is it? Now that I can do.” And without any further warning, Q slid off the table and turned his descent into a graceful drop to his knees. Bond had just an instant to stare down at him in surprise before he started working at Bond’s belt.

Bond swore quietly at the sight of long, pale fingers easily opening his trousers, touching just hard enough to brush against his cock. Like anything Q set his mind to, undoing Bond’s trousers was quick and efficient. He pulled both those and Bond’s boxers away in one swift motion, and then politely tapped Bond’s ankles so he could pull the fabric away from his feet. It was a charming sign of Q’s need to plan, reminding Bond of last night’s pause to remove socks. He had no idea how quickly Q had managed to endear himself to Bond, but even his cynical mind could find little fault.

As though mirroring the way Bond had taken control last night, Q’s sole nod in the direction of foreplay was to run his hands up the backs of Bond’s now bared legs, though that was more for Q’s balance than for Bond’s benefit. Then he ducked his head forward and took Bond’s half-hard cock into his mouth far sooner than Bond had expected.

Bond’s hands went to Q’s head, fingers twisting in his hair. He took a breath and considered stopping Q, but the thought dissolved under the heat of Q’s mouth. He should’ve let this happen last night — though he couldn’t for the life of him remember if Q had offered then. And for someone who’d apparently been celibate for some time, or nearly so, his enthusiasm more than made up for any lack of practice.

“Fucking Christ, Q,” Bond said, breathing in little pants between the words. “This is a mistake.”

Q pulled back slightly, just enough to pull his mouth off Bond, but not any further.  He chuckled even as one of his hands slid back around to grasp Bond’s cock for a few slow, but not gentle, pulls.  “If you can come up with a logical, rational explanation for why this is a bad idea, and convince me you believe it, I’ll consider stopping.”  Apparently he wasn’t going to stay still while waiting for the answer, however; he nuzzled back in with a few teasing licks before taking Bond back into his mouth.

If Bond _needed_ intense, his undoing had always been _playful_. He struggled to catch his breath so he could say, “Now that I know, I’ll find reasons to catch you alone.” He dug his fingers into Q’s hair, though he tried his hardest to be polite about it. Maybe he even succeeded. “Emergency stairwell. Executive carpark. Your workstation, in the middle of the night.”

Q hummed as if considering it.  He pulled off and repeated the same strokes as before as he replied.  “Don’t forget Tanner’s office  —  his impressively sized desk could be fun to defile.”  Q lifted his hand and ducked his head to give him just enough room to playfully lick and suck first one, then the other of Bond’s balls.  “Just give me a few moments’ warning, or bring one of my tablets so I can disable the security systems.” He finished before going back to Bond’s cock with more intensity.

Bond choked back a laugh, thinking _that_ would definitely get both of them fired. Moneypenny’s desk, maybe... At least she had a sense of humour. Hell, she’d probably want to watch.

The thought was interesting enough that Bond filed it away, even though he had a feeling Q was too skittish to be a proper exhibitionist — not that Bond was arguing. The thought that he could have Q entirely to himself appealed to his possessive nature. For now, what Q was doing with his mouth distracted him from thoughts of shocking Eve’s sensibilities. There was nothing skittish about Q at all as he worked his tongue and lips over Bond’s cock with the perfect balance of pressure and teasing. His hands were everywhere as Q indulged his love of touch, sweeping up Bond’s legs, fingertips teasing over his balls and arse, digging into his muscles to hold him still when Q pressed in closer until Bond hit the back of his throat.

All too soon, though, Q pulled back and looked up at Bond, eyes wide and dark. “These are very old tunnels.  I wonder if there are any rooms with fireplaces?”

Bond hadn’t thought beyond his flat, Q’s office, possibly Q’s flat, and now the firing range. The idea of having Q in front of a fire, watching how the firelight changed the colour of his skin and the tattoo, made him determined to find a way to lure Q out of London for a weekend. Perhaps longer.

Then he closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what the hell he was thinking. One long, intense, engaging night didn’t mean he should be thinking beyond a second night, if that. This wasn’t anything more than sex and friendship; it certainly wasn’t a relationship.

He reached down, pulling Q up to his feet. “No one knows what the hell’s in these tunnels beyond the security barricades,” he found himself saying. He pushed Q back against the divider wall between the lanes and buried his face against Q’s throat, inhaling deeply. “Christ, I want to fuck you. Next time I have the brilliant bloody idea of locking us in a firing range, remind me to bring some damned lube.”

Q’s arms came to clutch briefly at Bond’s shoulders, head falling back to give Bond more access.  Then he gently pushed Bond back and went one lane over and retrieved his cardigan and shirt.  Bond watched, baffled, as Q took them over to the back wall, where he set the clothes in a neat pile on the floor. Then he came back to Bond, smiling almost shyly, and pulled him over to the wall.

“Sit,” he said, helping Bond settle on the shirt so that his back was to the wall and his legs were in front of him.  Then Q stripped off his own trousers and underwear.  “Too cold?” he asked, gently settling himself in Bond’s lap.  “You know, I bet Mallory’s big chair would be nicer.  Maybe some other time.”

Q’s shins were hard against Bond’s thighs, his hipbones dug into Bond’s abdomen, and the concrete wall was rough against his back. He put an arm around Q’s body, just below his waist, and splayed his hand out so his thumb and little finger were resting on his spine. He could feel the subtle movements every time Q breathed.

“Why the hell aren’t you running from me?” he asked, pushing hard enough to shift Q’s body that last inch. He worked his free hand between their bodies, circling both their cocks as best he could; the contrast of his own calluses and Q’s soft, hot skin was dizzying.

“God, Bond,” Q breathed out, thrusting forward.  He gripped Bond’s upper arms and tipped his head down, resting his forehead on Bond’s shoulder as he caught his breath.  “Why on Earth would I do that? You’re a remarkable human being.”  He pulled his head back to take in Bond’s avaricious gaze, which was torn between looking down between their bodies or into Q’s eyes, then dove in for another kiss.

Any other day, any other time, Bond might have argued the point. Now, though, he wrote it off to the same unlikely, impossible luck that had let him survive every mission that should have ended with his actual death. The awkward angle kept him from properly moving his hand, but Q writhed like a damned serpent, impossibly flexible and stronger than he looked.

So Bond just kept up the pressure and twitched his fingers and ravaged Q’s mouth until he couldn’t breathe. If he couldn’t actually bury himself in Q’s body and fuck him senseless as he had last night, this was a perfectly good alternative.

Better than good, he thought, surprised at how hard and fast the heat was building low in his gut. Leave it to Q’s quick mind to make the uncomfortable situation work. Bond was an expert at improvisation, but he was more practiced at creative ways to kill; apparently Q, despite acting like a brilliant but shy little mouse, had surprising expertise at creative sensuality.

There was nothing skittish about Q at all now — nothing shy or reserved or held back. This had been his brilliant idea, right down to choosing a position that left Bond no leverage at all, entirely reliant upon Q for this pleasure they shared. It should have set off all of Bond’s internal alarms, but his compulsion to take control was lost under his desire to follow for once, to let Q indulge his own desire to lead.

All too soon, Q leaned in to nip at Bond’s ear, whispering, “Are you close? I am.”  But as he leaned back, Bond could tell something shifted.  Q’s gaze became slightly unfocused, then started flicking to the shelves, their discarded clothes, the door.  Though Q’s movements didn’t falter, Bond realized Q’s overactive mind had skipped past their conclusion to the aftermath — what to clean up with, how they were going to look when they left.  He looked back down at Bond a little desperately.

Bond considered speaking, but he was too caught up, and incoherent swearing would do Q no good. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, and Q’s expression turned distressed. His fingers dug into Bond’s biceps for only a moment. Bond twisted free and grabbed at his wrists, feeling the way his pulse jumped with sudden, reactive alarm.

Watching carefully, he pushed Q’s hands back. Q was thin enough that Bond didn’t even have to lean away from the wall to get his wrists crossed behind Q’s back, and he was able to wrap his fingers almost all the way around both wrists, trapping them.

The worried, distracted, _thinking_ look was gone from Q’s eyes, replaced with a resurgence of lust. He looked just a bit overwhelmed by the sudden shift in power. Reassured, Bond got his other hand back into place and settled back against the wall as comfortably as he could. He knew his back was getting abraded by the concrete wall, but it was easy to push the sting out of his mind.

“Show me how close,” he challenged, tightening both hands, sending a spark of heat back through his body as he felt Q’s cock twitch hard.

Q stared down at him for a brief, still moment before he started moving again.  He leaned forward just enough to rest most of the weight back on his knees and resumed thrusting into Bond’s fist.  The way Q’s arms were pulled back brought new definition to his chest; the lights in the shooters’ area were soft in contrast to the target spotlights, causing all of Q’s scars to blend softly into his skin. Only the tattoo stood out in stark relief, black lines sharp, colours muted to darker tones.

“Fuck, Bond, I take it back about Mallory’s chair.  This is perfect.”  Q threw his head back, eyes heavily lidded, his insistent but gentle thrusts turning sharper and faster.  His breath started coming in harsher draws, his Adam’s apple bobbing appealingly. Bond was tempted to bite, but he was entirely caught up in watching Q’s surrender.

When Q came, it was quiet but intense, his muscles trembling with the strain of his last few shallow, hard thrusts into Bond’s fist. Bond didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, so caught up in watching that he didn’t bother considering his own body’s needs.

Only when the last of Q’s tremors died out did he release Q’s wrists. As if his strings had been cut, Q sagged forward, and Bond pulled him close, closing his eyes at the very uncharacteristic, even unwelcome surge of affection that he tried to attribute to the neurochemical effects of sex.

Without shifting from Bond’s embrace, Q slowly but insistently moved his right hand from where it had fallen at Bond’s hip to back in between them.  Gently, he wrapped his talented fingers around Bond’s stiff cock and started pulling with firm insistence.

“Oh, fuck,” Bond swore softly, eyes closing for a moment. Q’s fingers were cool and long and thin, the skin soft and free of calluses. Compared to his own hand, the differences were incredible, more than making up for the slight awkwardness of the angle.

Without letting the movement of his hand falter, Q slid his hips back just far enough to give himself more room to maneuver.  “Your turn, now,” he whispered into Bond’s neck before tipping his head up to resume his earlier ministrations to Bond’s ear, sucking on his earlobe with his hand’s drag upward, nipping and tugging on the downward stroke.

Bond gave in, letting the pressure and friction and the soft bites all combine, dragging his mind entirely down into his body’s sensations. Q’s skin was hot against his, the concrete wall and floor soothingly cold by contrast, and abruptly Bond recalled how Q had felt under him. Now, he thought that if he’d actually _planned_ this, Q could’ve been riding his cock with that sinuous, strong rhythm, and he opened his eyes, imagining it, just as Q’s hand twisted up at a perfect angle, and Q bit more sharply.

He locked his arm around Q’s body and pulled him abruptly close. Q’s hand went still as Bond’s teeth dug into his shoulder, and the faint sound Q made pushed Bond over the edge. He closed his eyes and let the pleasure take him, feeling how Q did his best to shift his fingers and ease him through it.

“God you’re amazing,” Q whispered in his ear, and Bond could feel Q’s mouth, pressed against his temple, turn up in a grin.  “I can’t believe you went along with that,” he said, voice light and teasing as he pulled himself up, going for a stack of paper towels on the back shelf.

Bond sat forward, flexing his spine against the residual ache. The concrete abrasions stung, but he didn’t think there was any blood. “You keep reminding me you’re the genius here. Why should I have to think of everything?” he teased back, getting to his feet more slowly. He gathered up the cardigan and shirt, taking a quick look at both; other than wrinkles, they seemed to have escaped unharmed.

Q dampened the hand towels in the sink with warm water, first cleaning himself before walking back to Bond.  “Imagination versus experience.” Q thoughtfully hummed as he first handed over some of the warm towels, then stepped behind Bond to gently dab soothingly at the scrapes.  “Did my cardigan make it, or do I need to go home early due to an unexpected virus?”

Bond went still, relaxing under the unexpected care. Usually, he ended up tending to the worst of his injuries himself, ignoring anything that wasn’t actually at risk of making him bleed out. His instinct was to tell Q to stop, that the scrapes were trivial, but he couldn’t find it in him to speak.

Instead, he cleaned up and binned the paper towels with a quick, accurate throw so he wouldn’t have to move away from Q’s hands. Then he said, “You’re not thinking tactically. Why would I _give_ you the clothes at all, if I could just keep you like this?”

The chuckle Q pressed in between Bond’s shoulder blades was warm and followed with a kiss.  “Well, if I have to walk out of here naked, I will absolutely ensure that Tanner knows it’s your fault, not mine.  You might also find yourself running into more red lights on the way home than you could likely tolerate.”

“I can’t in good conscience let you be so cruel to my car. That’s a racing engine, not built for stop-and-go traffic,” Bond said, keeping his laugh back as best he could, which wasn’t very. He surrendered Q’s shirt, though he kept the cardigan for a moment. Had Q never heard of _fashion_ before? He was already scheduled for his quarterly appointment at Dunhill tomorrow; for a long-term customer like him, they were willing to be flexible and accommodate his unusual schedule. He could probably arrange for Q to have a consultation.

Q finished his careful evaluation of Bond’s back and tossed the towels into the bin.  He bent over to pick up his trousers and pants, sliding into them with a hop and a grin.  Bond found himself staring at where the tattooed wires dipped over his hip bones and disappeared into the waistline. He still had some trouble reconciling the brilliant, adult Q with the teenaged criminal, Jack Edwards. The tattoo didn’t look old, but that could be because Q had touched it up over the years. Even if the tattoo dated back to the years of Jack Edwards, the more recent repairs meant this man — the brilliant, rational technician-turned-Quartermaster — approved of the tattoo and wanted to keep it.

Then Q was pulling his shirt back on, buttoning the white fabric over the marks on his skin.  When he was done tucking and pressing, he stood in front of Bond, eyebrows raised.  “Cardigan?”  He held out his hand expectantly.

Bond lifted the cardigan, extending it slowly as he looked regretfully over Q’s clothed body. In a curious reversal of last night, Bond was still naked while Q was clothed, a situation that didn’t bother him in the least. He’d never been body shy, and he knew he had no reason to be now, even with all the abuse his job inflicted on his body.

“Some people say the Double O section is overtrained,” he said as he finally let the cardigan brush Q’s fingers. “I’m having a very difficult time not killing every one of those hateful buttons on your shirt. And let’s not even discuss what could potentially happen to those trousers.”

Q grinned, eyes raking appreciatively over Bond.  “Under the proper conditions, it’s possible I won’t object.”  He pulled the cardigan on, then stepped forward again.  He reached down to gather up Bond’s shirt, but instead of just handing it to him, he carefully slid it onto Bond’s arm, over his shoulders and across his back, finally drawing the other sleeve into place.  He moved to stand in front of Bond, buttoning the shirt.  “I confess, your buttons are nicer than mine.”

Not wanting to be _too_ critical of Q’s wardrobe, Bond considered a dozen different responses before he opened his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by the laptop at Q’s firing bench. Q’s head snapped around at the pattern of beeps.  His disappointment was obvious, and his shoulders slumped as he apparently recognized whatever the signal meant.

“That’s a message from M,” he said, going quickly to the laptop.  “He sure does know how to spoil a good time, though the timing could be much worse, I suppose.”

Worry clawed across Bond’s skin. He retrieved his clothes, asking, “What is it?”

Q didn’t bother to sit. He tapped at the laptop and said, “0031’s confirmed a petroleum processing plant is actually a chemical weapons factory.”

“0031’s in Iran,” Bond recalled, feeling his worry grow. “Is he safe?”

“Perfectly.  Well, as much as any of you are safe when you’ve been told only to do recon.”  Q threw him a look that Bond guessed was supposed to be a reprimand.  “Unlike some Double O’s, he followed his orders and didn’t engage.  He’s on his way back now.”  A look of realization crossed his face, followed quickly by annoyance and a sort of bored resignation.  “Well, I know what I’ll be doing for the rest of the day.”  He typed a quick reply, and then sat on his chair to put on his shoes and socks.

Bond quashed his irritation as he hastily dressed; the job came first for both of them. “I’ll stay down here a bit, and then check everything back into the armoury. Unless you want company?” he offered.

Q looked up in surprise, one of his Batman socks pulled halfway up his foot.  “I would love company, actually, given that this particular task is incredibly dull.  However, I’d be too tempted to ruin your image with decidedly non-professional attentions.”  Q looked back down at his sock, laughing regretfully.

Still barefoot, Bond went to Q’s chair and touched his chin, tipping his head back so Bond could kiss him. When the kiss broke, he ran a finger over Q’s lips and said, “Then tonight, I want you at my flat — very non-professionally.”

Q smiled up at him, then finished with his shoes and socks.  “As lovely as that sounds, don’t count on it.  I suspect this project will take the better part of the night.  Tomorrow night?”  

A bit disappointed, Bond nodded, leaning against the wall between two of the lanes. “If not, I might have to come find you. I know where you work, after all,” he threatened.

There was nothing innocent about Q’s responding grin.  “I look forward to it.”  Then he gathered his laptop and tablet, unlocked the room, and disappeared through the doors.

Bond listened to the doors latch close. Then he sat down in Q’s abandoned chair to put on his socks and shoes, thinking that maybe the enforced break was for the best. This attachment he was feeling had to be due to the newness off their affair. Bond had always been careful to restrict his office romances to those who were well removed from his job. He’d never had another Double O or even a junior field agent (not from MI6, at least), and he’d certainly never gone after anyone in the executive branch, other than a few people from the secretarial pool, back before they’d all been reorganised into personal assistants or administrators or whatever the job title was. No, he preferred to prowl accounting or one of the other departments that had nothing to do with the Double O program at all, which made his decision to continue with Q all the more irrational.

Distance, he told himself as he went to retrieve his safety equipment. He put on the yellow-tinted safety glasses, hooked the ear protectors around his neck, and went to examine the assortment of rifles. Distance was definitely a good thing. With a little time, he’d be able to treat this as exactly what it was — good sex — without the emotional attachment. That was the only way he’d be assured that they could continue to work together after they were done with whatever this was between them.


	9. Chapter 9

_Once, what now feels like a long long time ago, a young man named Jack was fresh out of detox and bare-bones MI6 training. He sat at a small table in a bland canteen with Major Boothroyd (then-Q) and Anna Marks (then-M). Jack was arrogant, self-righteous, and snarky, still half-expecting to be murdered rather than reformed._

_They told him his name was R now, and they had a project for him._

_On paper, it didn’t seem like that interesting of a project. Blow up a warehouse in Palestine. Anyone with a passport and a grenade could do it, right?_

_That’s when Jack learned about the actual physical and monetary costs and political ramifications of the actions of individuals. His challenge was to prevent those costs and damages by finding a way to eliminate the warehouse remotely._

_The first time, it took him three days. And what a magnificent three days it was. He hacked foreign networks without the old fear of getting caught. He hunted down any tiny clue he could find about the building’s layout, reading schematics from potentially similar buildings, tracking mobile phone movements through the building to get a feel for walls and hallways, and hunting the internet for photographs. Once his hard-won sketch was complete, he’d compiled notes and educated guesses to figure out the where the wiring was. He’d ended up discovering that the computer that debugged the rocket targeting systems code also connected to the building’s power generators. Idiots. It was going to be a simple matter of overloading the generators, which were outside the the wall opposite qassam rocket storage. Ridiculously stupid idiots. He’d taken the plan to Q, who had given his approval._

_No one was more surprised than Jack that his plan, his work, was flawless. Apparently not having to worry about getting caught freed up just enough of his mental capacity that mistakes became much less likely. Thirty people were dead — he was told to carefully think of it in abstract terms, rather than the more concrete “I killed thirty people” — but thousands of lives had been saved from death from the weapons inside the building._

_M and Q had taken him out to dinner at a not-too-fancy restaurant that evening in celebration. He’d had a hot meal that included all five food groups for the first time in recent memory, and basked in an intelligent conversation that included just the right mix of praise, reassurance, and possibility for the future._

_That evening, lying in his new comfortable bed in his government-provided flat, he’d felt almost godlike in his power, giddy at the thought of what his future might bring._

 

~~~

 

Q sat at his desk, scrolling through his final report, wondering just when he’d gone from reflexively anticipatory to inescapably dismissive about this part of his job. 

A pretty, young blonde technician came up to his desk and set a stack of papers down. “Here you are. I finished the last of the budgets projections for you this morning. All you have to do is review them and sign.” She flirtatiously tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

As he started to read, Q smiled to himself, thinking she had no idea what sort of competition she was up against if she wanted his affections. If he weren’t gay, that is.

“So, what exactly are you doing?” she asked, peering at his screen even though she obviously couldn’t see anything through the privacy screen from her vantage point.

“Getting ready to blow up a factory in Iran, actually.” Q eyed the paper stack with much less annoyance than he normally would. He was actually going to pass it off to another technician, Walker, who had a passion for finding flaws in budgets, apparently. He could check her numbers. Bond’s idea, as it turned out, had been pure genius.

“Really? Isn’t that usually one of the Double O’s jobs?” she asked with false curiosity. 

Q looked up with surprise. “No, actually. Getting agents in and out of places like that means using a lot of resources — travelling there, crossing the border undetected but with weapons, getting into the building, getting out again, and returning. It’s usually not worth the risk to our highly valuable agents, nor the money they spend on the job for bribery, equipment, and travel, unless it absolutely can’t be done remotely.”

“You mean by targeted air strikes?”

Q looked at her with annoyance now. He didn’t expect everyone in Q Branch to be as clever as him, but if this was flirting on her part, pretending to be unintelligent was not going to play in her favor. “Of course not. Those are far, far too high profile.”

The technician looked at him doubtfully. “You do it? Without an agent or remote aircraft?”

“Frequently. It’s actually a rather simple matter of following the right information and connections to the perfect solution. Take this factory.” Q pulled up a rough schematic of the building he was targeting. “The factory is, on paper, a petroleum processing plant. Our very reliable source, backed up by a local friend’s intel, tells us it’s a weapons manufacturing facility. My job is to eliminate it without leaving any suspicion that we, the British government, had anything to do with it.”

“You’re saying you have to make it look like an accident.”

Q hummed approvingly, tracing a path on the screen over the schematic. “It usually isn’t that difficult. Faulty wiring, electronics capable of remote operation, fuel sources left in careless places... There’s very nearly always something I can use. The actual difficulty lies in getting accurate information about the layout and construction of the building.”

“And in this case?” Tanner asked, walking into the office. He nodded at the flirting technician, who mercifully took it as a sign to vacate the office. Q didn’t bother giving her a reassuring smile.

“A combination of all three.” Q indicated the path he’d traced earlier, which now glowed blue. “Apparently one of the programmers brought his laptop with him to work today. He’s left it connected to their wireless network. He’s either on a lunch break or in a meeting — I know this due to a sudden and complete lack of network use. The plan is to overclock the processor and halt fan functionality, let it overheat and melt down, and send a shock to the facility wiring. It’s a very old building, and they don’t use UPSes or other power regulators, so the short will most likely cause a fire here” — he tapped on a corner of the building highlighted on the screen — “where there is a frankly ridiculous clusterfuck of wiring that wouldn’t pass any code inspection anywhere.” 

“And how do you know about the wiring? Recon wouldn’t have been able to figure it out.”

“I’ve already sent minor shocks along the system to map out the wiring. Hardly difficult. Once I light it up, it will set off a chain reaction that catches the building on fire. Due to some rather sloppy chemical storage, the whole place with explode before they are able to put it out.”

“Fatalities?”

“Sixty to eighty.”

“Damage radius?”

“Less than a square kilometer.”

“Civilian casualties?”

“Not likely, though my projected casualties figure includes ten, just to be on the safe side.” Back when he was younger and more arrogant, he’d always projected the civilian casualty rate to be zero, assuming he could time it just right and keep the damage small enough. It had been years since he’d been that foolish. _Or hopeful_ , something whispered in the back of his mind. “There will be secondary from the chemicals in the plant.”

Tanner nodded dismissively. “When can you be ready?”

“Now if I have approval.” Q tapped a key on his keyboard, and a countdown clock widget popped up. “The programmer will be gone for the next forty minutes yet. If not, the programmer is gone around 8:00 am to 9:00 am our time nearly every day.”

Tanner tapped out a text and received a reply almost immediately. “Do it.”

Q switched views from the schematic to a terminal window and tapped in a few commands. It took less than five minutes. “Done.”

“Nice work, Q,” Tanner said dismissively as he turned and left.

His fingers left the keyboard to tighten on his mug of tea. Nice work? 

In ten minutes, he’d (rather nonchalantly) used a fraction of his mental capacity to murder around seventy people, at least some of whom were guaranteed to be completely innocent bystanders. He hadn’t hesitated. Actually, he’d gone through the steps so rotely that he really hadn’t spared them a thought beyond a quick calculation.

He’d been _bored_ while calculating a death toll. His own day’s tally of murders.

Something twisted in his gut. He set down his mug, deciding that now might be a good time to go find Bond. He could use his particular brand of wonderful distraction.

 

~~~

 

The tracker on Bond’s mobile led Q to a rich brown corner mansion in the heart of Mayfair, three miles down the A202 from MI6 headquarters. The building in question had an elegant white stone archway leading into a small garden. Silvery letters over the arch read Alfred Dunhill. Beyond was a courtyard restaurant. Looking in, Q couldn’t see any sign of Bond.

He went instead to a door farther down, one that led directly into the building, and let himself into an elegant reception room. An older man in a dark grey suit rose from behind a desk, smiling politely.

“Welcome to Dunhill. Can I assist you, sir?” he asked.

Q looked around; the oil paintings on the walls were all old classics — originals and not reproductions, in several cases — that gave no hint as to the building’s purpose.

He coughed a bit, getting ready to speak in his well-practised, most posh accent. “I need to speak with Mr. Bond, please.” 

The man didn’t need to consult the computer hidden under a glass panel set on his desk. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Do you have a card, sir?” he asked, circling around, indicating the group of substantial leather armchairs arranged by the windows.

“A card?” After a puzzled moment, he took a Universal Exports business card out of his wallet and handed it over, briefly wondering if Bond would actually recognize the name on it. “Here you are.”

“Thank you, sir.” He gestured once more to the armchairs before he excused himself and left through a corner door.

Q sat, feeling a bit out of place; the room was like something outside the modern world, despite the computer hidden in the desk. Beside the armchair, he found a thin leather folio; inside were fabric swatches in mostly muted, neutral colours. Apparently, these were the summer offerings for next year.

The concierge returned just a couple of minutes later, holding the door open. “If you’ll come this way, sir, Mr. Bond will see you.”

Q followed somewhat reluctantly, already having serious second thoughts about the wisdom of coming here. He was mentally off his game, and though he could fake posh with the best of them in conversation, places like this always made him nervous.

And, of course, his ‘relationship’ with Bond, if it could be called that, was very, very new. Now that he thought about it, perhaps he didn’t actually have the right to interrupt Bond’s downtime because of a little dissatisfaction on the job. It wasn’t actually anything that couldn’t have waited.

The concierge led him down a whitewashed hallway with small bronze and marble classical sculptures in lighted niches. They passed several doors on both sides before the concierge opened one with a brass plaque beside it that read _The Courtyard_. It led out into the restaurant Q had seen earlier, and he looked around curiously just in time to see Bond emerge from a side door. Despite the damp chill, he was in his shirtsleeves, looking more relaxed than Q had yet seen him outside his own flat — especially since he was unarmed, as far as Q could tell.

When he spotted Q, he smiled with apparently genuine pleasure and beckoned Q over, choosing a table in one corner, between two topiaries. Quietly, the concierge withdrew.

“Quite an impressive place,” Q said, smoothing his cardigan (to no effect) as he stood opposite Bond at the table. “Come here often?”

“As often as I can, yes.” Bond gestured to one of the metal bistro chairs and took the other. His smile turned sly as he added, “I can talk to the barber for you, if you’d like. He could probably do something a bit more neat, without losing too much length.”

“And here I was fairly convinced you like my hair the way it is,” Q shot back before it occurred to him that such conversations were probably not appropriate in their current environment. He closed his mouth with an embarrassed snap and sat down carefully.

“I certainly don’t want it shorter. You’ve convinced me of its virtues,” Bond said, turning away to catch the eye of a white-clad server. As the man started across the courtyard, Bond turned back to Q. “I’m feeding you lunch. Well, breakfast for lunch,” he corrected, glancing at his watch.

“Your obsession with feeding your dates is odd, Bond.”

“Not ‘dates’. Only you,” Bond answered. When the server reached their table, he said, “The smoked salmon for two. Kenya French press and... Earl Grey?” he asked Q. “Or coffee?”

“Earl Grey would be fine, thank you,” Q responded, thrown into even more of a mental tailspin by that ‘only you’.

Bond nodded to the server, who nodded and left. Turning his chair to face Q, Bond said, “Since there aren’t any flashing lights and sirens outside, I assume nothing important has caught fire?”

Q was relieved to see that Bond seemed genuinely pleased to see him, but now that he was in a nice restaurant, surrounded by normal people, he probably shouldn’t actually start the conversation with ‘So, I just blew up seventy people in Iran.’ Instead, he said, “No, no emergency. Just a — ” Q’s brain stuttered in a search for the appropriate adjective. It wasn’t a bad morning, or a long morning, or even an unusual morning. “Frustrating morning at work. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Critical second fitting on my spring wardrobe. England may collapse without it,” Bond said dryly, leaning back in his seat. “Whenever I’m between missions, I come here to give my stylist a chance to yell at me for letting my hair get out of control. It reminds me what I’m risking my life for,” he added with a quick grin. “If I’d known you were taking the morning off, I would’ve rescheduled elsewhere. Dunhill’s dress suit line wouldn’t suit you.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Q chuckled. “I suspect I’d look somewhat absurd in a tux. Like a penguin who got stretched by a steamroller.” He grinned at Bond, and looked around at their fellow patrons. “They seem pretty full-service here. Barbers, suits, restaurants. I wonder if they have a massive video game room with the best technology, or if that’s too out of character for what they’re going for?”

“Book an appointment and they’ll bloody well build it, if they haven’t already. There’s a private screening room. And a full service spa, assuming I’d allow anyone else to get their hands on you.”

The possessive note in Bond’s voice both relaxed and embarrassed Q. “I’m not a particular fan of strange people touching me, so no need to worry. Do you play video games? I have to confess I have a hard time picturing it.” Q conjured a mental image of Bond with a PS3 controller in his hands, muscles bunched in concentration, yelling at the game’s lack of adherence to the laws of gravity or reality. Maybe even throwing the controller when he got angry.

“Does qualifying on a UAV prototype in ’99 count?” Bond glanced down at Q’s clothes thoughtfully. “You don’t strike me as the type to appreciate opera. Symphony? Theatre?”

Q shrugged. “I’ve never been to any of them, actually. I used to go to concerts a lot when I was a kid, but I suspect that’s not where you’re headed with this.” He grinned, suddenly realizing exactly what direction Bond’s mind had taken. “Your obsession with getting your dates in formal wear is just as odd as the meal issue, you know.”

“Just you,” Bond said, repeating himself from earlier. “And if I get you _into_ formal wear, then I’ll have the immense pleasure of taking you _out_ of it when the evening’s finished.”

“You are bloody ridiculous, you know that? Look where we are.” Q shook his head and seriously contemplated covering his probably red face with a napkin. “However, may I offer you a deal? If I let you drag me to some absurd cultural event, then you have to agree to spend an equivalent time with me at a rock concert of my choosing.”

A dangerous light came into Bond’s eyes as he smiled. “Agreed.”

“That was too easy,” Q said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Don’t forget, it also means that I get to pick out your clothes, too.”

“I’ll turn you loose in my wardrobe before we go shopping. My leather jacket’s a bit tight across the shoulders, but you can’t get the same quality with anything modern.” He sat up as the server brought over a teapot and carafe, with their place settings. “I haven’t owned a proper motorcycle in years. Shall we shop for one, or would that be a bit too much?”

James Bond, in leather, on a motorcycle. Q was certain that his pupils were dilated, and he could feel his pulse pick up. He waited until after the server had poured the tea and coffee and then left before reaching around the cups to brush his fingers over Bond’s hand. “What did I say about dirty talk in a posh place like this? Simply obscene, Bond.”

Bond leaned forward, barely glancing at the nearby tables — two executive types reading their newspapers, an older woman with a bored young man wholly engaged in texting, and three men who looked vaguely familiar from telly, though Q couldn’t immediately place them. Lowering his voice, Bond leaned in close and said, “Just how long would your cautious side hold out on a classic Harley Davidson, your arms around my waist, cock pressed up against my backside, as we tore off into the country for a long weekend ride?”

The mental image was precisely the sort of distraction Q was hoping for when he came looking for Bond. His fingers tightened around Bond’s wrist, and he too leaned in as far as he could without spilling anything. “It’s really too bad we have to wait until the weekend to find out.”

“We could always steal one from the motorpool, but that might raise questions,” Bond said casually, watching as Q picked up his tea. “Besides, I’d rather have something customised. It’s been a long time since I’ve indulged. Stealing a motorbike for some spur-of-the-moment chase doesn’t count.” His smile gave way to a more serious, thoughtful expression as he added, “Only if you’re not uncomfortable with the idea. I’ll admit, there’s a bit of appeal to the thought of going on the Tube dressed that way. There’s always someone stupid enough to start trouble.”

“Considering that unlike some people I actually do have to use the Tube with some frequency, I’d rather not get banned from it by getting into a brawl.” Q looked thoughtfully at Bond as he sat back and drank his tea. “You know, Q used to talk about you —”

“Just because I _stole_ the passenger liner didn’t mean I could _keep_ it for him,” Bond protested.

Q chuckled. “That’s not what I meant. You must know you have quite the reputation. Hell, I think you’ve put some work into it. You’re infamous for suave self-assurance and getting your own way, even if it takes an excessive amount of convincing. He was very impressed by your ability to have women come back from evenings with you, saying something along the lines of ‘I’ve never done that before, but it was great!’”

Bond looked at him, eyes suddenly sharp and assessing. “You neglect to mention that in every case, the woman in question was married.”

“So, because I’m not married, you feel the need to be constantly asking permission? I don’t see the correlation.”

Bond turned away, staring distantly across the courtyard. “Look at us,” he said softly. “The men I’d normally invite into my bed have all been either field agents or targets — allies or enemies. It never meant anything, because there was every likelihood that one of us would end up dead before the night was out.”

“Look, I’m sorry, forget it. I didn’t mean for my maudlin mood to rub off on you. I withdraw the question.” Q dropped his gaze back to his half-drunk tea. “Care to —”

“One of these days, I’m going to break you of your habit of apologising,” Bond interrupted. He set down his coffee and gently took Q’s teacup out of his hands. “What I’m saying — what you’re not _hearing_ , idiot genius that you are — is that I actually give a damn about you. I don’t want you upset or hurt, and I’m very much aware that I _could_ hurt you, unintentionally.”

Abruptly, the warm, distracted, pleasant feeling evaporated under a surge of prickly irritation. Q glared at him. He wanted to laugh at Bond, to tell him _yeah right_ , that he knew better, to tell him to give up on the ridiculous notion that he was something fragile.

“I’m the idiot?” he snapped, and had the distinct pleasure of seeing Bond back off, expression going shuttered. 

Then he realised what he’d said — how he’d said it. _Seventy people without a second thought_ was still bouncing around the back of his brain, and he really didn’t want to pick a fight with the one person he knew could distract him from it.

Before Bond could say anything, Q picked up his tea and asked conversationally, “So, just so I don’t turn you off completely, is there any rock group currently touring you’d actually hate to see?”

Bond topped off his coffee mug from the carafe. Just as casually, he answered, “I’ve no idea who’s touring. Whatever you’d like to see is fine. You might want to talk to Moneypenny, once you’ve made a decision. She knows everyone, and can probably arrange tickets.”

Q could tell that Bond was retreating, but if there was anything to be dealt with, they could do it later. Now, he gave Bond a grin that he hoped would look reassuring. “Are you the type to be offended if I pull out my phone during lunch and start to look up concerts?”

“Not at all.” Bond gave him a brief smile and half-rose to reach for a newspaper abandoned on the next table over.

 

~~~

 

“Don’t,” Bond warned Moneypenny, before she could take a breath. She subsided back into her seat and hastily buzzed to unlock M’s outer door just as Bond reached it. The airlock-style double doors were meant to trap unwanted guests, but something in his expression must have warned her not to try it. The inner door opened on cue.

Mallory and Tanner were sitting at the desk that still seemed slightly _off_ to Bond. M’s desk was sleek and modern, not this antique monstrosity that had followed Mallory over from his cabinet posting.

And of course there was no damned bloody hideous dog statuette. That lived elsewhere now, where Bond could look at it when he wanted to remember.

“Bond,” the still-new M greeted mildly.

“You’re sending 0012 to Belize,” Bond said as he crossed to the empty guest chair beside Tanner. He leaned against the back and told Mallory, “I want the job.”

“0012 has local contacts,” Tanner said, a flicker of worry showing in his expression.

“And I’ll never _get_ local contacts without going there.” Bond turned his second-best glare on Tanner. “It’s Belize, Tanner, not Seoul. Even if I lit the whole bloody country on fire, who would notice?”

“We don’t have time for that sort of list.”

“Dare I ask,” Mallory interrupted smoothly, “is there a _reason_ , Bond?”

Bond would sooner hand himself over to England’s worst enemies than explain that Tanner’s bloody investigation had backfired — that he could hunt and seduce and then abandon any target except for two: first Vesper, and now Q.

Instead, Bond said bluntly, ““Because I’ve been off-duty long enough. You don’t need me here, terrorising headquarters.”

“Well, I’m not sending you to Belize, either,” Mallory muttered, turning his attention back to Tanner.

Tanner frowned. “There’s the situation in Johannesburg,” he said tentatively.

Before Mallory could answer, Bond said, “I’ll take it. Forward the details to the local station head.”

Mallory and Tanner exchanged another look, and Bond knew he’d spoken too soon. He _never_ took an assignment without knowing at least the bare-bones details. Christ, Q had him worse than rattled. He needed to get the hell away. Another continent sounded bloody perfect.

“It requires a delicate touch,” Mallory finally warned. “That means no shooting up any more African embassies, or don’t bother coming back.”

Bond bared his teeth in a sort of grin. “I’ll try to notify you ahead of time, should any embassies offend me by harbouring mercenaries.” He gave them both a nod and left, ignoring Tanner’s worried look.

Out in the antechamber, Moneypenny asked, “Emergency, James?”

“Book me on a flight to Johannesburg, first available,” he said without stopping. “And get me a room at The Residence.”

Moneypenny frowned at him. “You’re welcome,” she said sharply.

Bond paused at the door. He looked back at her and gave a slightly guilty nod. “Don’t let Tanner go on any witch hunts while I’m gone,” he advised quietly before he let himself out into the hall.

 

~~~

 

Q sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. This day was turning out to be a real winner. He’d killed seventy people before lunch, wrecked what could have been a nice lunch with Bond, and now had at least an hour of mind-numbing budgets to look at and nerve-numbing signatures to write. 

What made it worse was that he’d had two really great days running up to it. Maybe if he hadn’t pissed off Bond, he’d have been ‘suckered’ into another side project down in the R&D labs now instead of moping over cold tea and too-white hardcopy. 

He still wanted to tell Bond about what happened this morning. He craved Bond’s version of distraction like a drug, as if it were anything more than a temporary cure to his current apathy.

Q put his glasses back on and reached for a pen. Far too unreasonable, that train of thought. His day was already a wreck. Best not to dwell.

Besides, he had a concert date to look forward to.

The door to his office opened with a hiss of hydraulics. He looked back, hoping to see Bond, though Moneypenny was a pleasant enough surprise. “Eve. Just the person I wanted to see. I hear you have exceptional abilities in securing concert tickets against impossible odds.”

“And that’s just one of my least impressive talents,” she said with a bright grin as she sauntered across the room. “What are we seeing and where are we going for drinks first?” she asked, sliding a slate blue folder on top of his already-substantial pile of paperwork. Through the cutout window in front, he read JOHANNESBURG.

“I haven’t decided what yet — I’m more than a little out of touch these days — but there absolutely would be drinks first.” He smirked. “And after.” Q picked up the file and met Moneypenny’s grin with his own. “Suggestions about the what are most welcome if you’re offering; my only condition is that they’re the type of band that has an amazing mosh pit.”

He had the rare pleasure of seeing surprise flare in her expression. “Why, Quartermaster,” she said flirtatiously, “look what you’re hiding under that cardigan. I’ll need to find my boots for that. Tell you what — why don’t you stop by my office after you get the new op sorted out?”

“You have no idea what’s under this cardigan, and I’m sorry to say you’re missing the parts that would allow you to find out.” Clearly, Bond was a bad influence on him, he thought, surprised at his own forwardness. “Anyway, what’s in Johannesburg?”

“Rumour of a rumour of a possible chemical weapons sale — the usual,” she said dismissively. “We were going to try to get assets on the ground to verify, but M ordered Bond onsite, so I suppose someone’s got confirmation.”

“Oh.” Q was determined to keep his disappointment out of his voice and demeanour, but Moneypenny was observant, so he didn’t know how successful he was. He flipped through the file to see that the mission was going to last at least a few weeks — ruling out both a concert date and weekend motorcycle trip. “When am I meeting him to get him outfitted?”

She blinked in surprise. “He’s on the way to Heathrow right now, I’d imagine. Keeps a bag in the car for quick deployment. Flight leaves just before seven. You’ll have to coordinate with Station J, unless you feel like going out in the field yourself.” She said the last bit gently; she knew full well that he didn’t fly.

“No, you’re right, I’ll contact Station J.” He suddenly wanted Moneypenny out of there. Bond was leaving on a weeks-long mission when he was supposed to have at least another day at headquarters, and he hadn’t bothered to tell him? Q thought their recent intimate behaviour would have warranted, if not a personal check-in, an e-mail at the very least.

So much for being able to look forward to a long list of pleasant distractions in the near future.

“I’ll get right on it. Thank you, Moneypenny. I’ll let you know about those concert tickets.”

“I’ll keep my calendar open.” She flashed him a smirk and left the office


	10. Chapter 10

The Johannesburg mission was a personal record for Bond. He lost contact with Station J — and therefore the home office — on day three, ended up crossing five country borders by day six, and came very close to being mauled by an angry group of lions on day thirteen. Day twenty-one found him almost on the other side of the continent, because naturally the arms dealers were working with the Ethiopians, funding the government unrest — or maybe the rebel government was funding the arms dealing, or splitting the profits. Whatever the case, they all ended up dead by day twenty-six, leaving Bond in possession of two laptops; a rucksack full of mobile phones with financial data; the phone number for an accommodating, lovely woman named Makeda at the tax records department — such as it was, in that country — and a torn ligament in his elbow.

He was still rather proud of himself when he landed at Heathrow, though that might have been the codeine.

He considered driving to the office anyway, but abandoned that plan in favour of hiring a taxi and taking another codeine pill. Either the prescription he’d picked up in Alexandria was weak or he was developing a tolerance.

Around day seven or eight, he’d destroyed his MI6 access pass in a campfire — no sense letting it fall into enemy hands — so he had the cab take him round the visitors’ entrance. “What day is it?” he asked as he sorted out local currency from the money used in a half dozen different African nations.

The cabbie gave him an odd look in the mirror as he took Bond’s money. “Thursday.”

Bond’s estimate was three days off. “The date?”

“Tenth.” Frowning, the cabbie turned around and asked, “You all right, mate? This _is_ MI6, you know.”

“Perfect.” Bond got out, hefted his backpack over his good shoulder, and dragged a hideous, gaudy blue wheeled carry-on away from the cab, which sped away with undue haste.

Gaining access to secure MI6 areas through the visitors’ entrance was a tedious process, especially given that Bond had traveled back to London on the false ID he’d purchased in Cairo using the funds on a terrorist’s mobile account. How the hell the Border Agency hadn’t stopped him, he had no idea; he’d have words with M about that, preferably after a decent meal.

As soon as he thought that, his thoughts turned to Q, and he snapped at the security guard who was unnecessarily trying to explain that tourists weren’t allowed to play with the biometric scanner. Bond slapped his palm down on it a bit harder than was necessary, jarring his abused arm, making the guard flinch for his gun, and causing the system to chirp when it recognised him.

At least something was going right.

Without another word, Bond let himself through to the next checkpoint, where he found someone who recognised him, despite the beard he’d accidentally acquired. He handed off the suitcase with the instructions, “Have someone send the contents to my flat and burn the bag.” The rucksack of electronic prizes, he kept.

The tension finally left him as he entered the emergency stairwell, where he stopped to light a harsh, bitter Cleopatra cigarette — a far cry from the Turkish blend he preferred, but he hadn’t been in any position to complain. The stairwell allowed him to smoke and avoid a chance meeting with anyone from Medical while giving him access to the rest of the building.

And there, he paused. He leaned against the wall, gently dropped the rucksack at his feet, and considered his options.

Up led to M, Tanner, after action reports, and definite harsh words about the tank he’d borrowed.

Down led to Q Branch and Q and more personal questions than he wanted to explain to himself much less to the person with whom he was most emphatically _not_ in a relationship.

For the first time in almost thirty days, indecision paralysed him. He sat down on the stairs, adjusted the sling, and set the pack of detestable cigarettes on the stair beside him. Eventually, he’d figure out something to do.

 

~~~

 

15:36:19: Biometric scanner 00191: Bond, James [007]  
15:36:20: Biometric scanner 00191: Biometric print accepted  
15:41:52: Biometric scanner 00177: Bond, James [007]  
15:41:53: Biometric scanner 00177: Biometric print accepted

Q glanced at the security display, filtered to a very limited dataset, and wondered for the twentieth time in the last half hour why Bond’s prints had stopped registering. The 190-199 set were all in the visitors’ area on the ground floor; scanners 160-178 were all in the particular emergency stairwell where people went to sneak a cigarette when it was raining.

All the emergency stairwell exits had print-scanners built into the bars that opened the doors. Bond’s prints hadn’t registered at any exit. In fact, none of the doors had opened at all, so he hadn’t even bumped one open with an elbow or hip.

Q sighed as he looked at the display, feeling very irritated with himself. On one hand, he really, really wanted to go down to that stairwell and confirm with his own eyes that Bond was alive and probably just avoiding dealing with the fallout of being a force of chaos, this time in Africa. On the other hand, Q had made a mantra for himself — don’t think about it, just keep moving forward, don’t think about it — that he wanted to pretend he had the self control to stick to.

The truth was, Q was overly, ridiculously, embarrassingly confused about the whole situation and he didn’t know what (if anything) to do.

After two days of crushing disappointment and self-righteous anger, Q had realised that Bond probably hadn’t been insulting him when he’d mentioned being afraid of hurting him; Q just took it that way because he was incredibly sick of people thinking of him as weak. Given what little Q knew about Bond’s relationship history, it actually seemed entirely possible that Bond was, in fact, thinking about something that had happened to a former lover. Or lovers.

Breaking into M’s office wasn’t difficult in the slightest. The security protocols certainly were impressive, but they were Q’s own design.

Sitting there at three o’clock in the morning, reading Bond’s file in the cold room, was sobering. The full account of what had happened with Vesper Lynd was heartbreaking, and it made Q ache in sympathy... until he came across the notes about Bond’s last mission before going to Africa. The one where he’d be assigned to assess Q’s threat to the agency.

At first, rage burned hot in his veins and his hands shook with it as he stared at the report. _“Elimination not necessary. Subject unlikely to turn against England or the organisation.”_

That first day, Bond had come to talk to Q — to _flirt_ with Q — to determine if he needed to be assassinated as a security risk.

He’d had to set the files down and approach the issue with his usual cold calculations before he could look at it again. He sorted through the facts: Tanner had been right to be concerned (if erroneous to think that Q would hurt England); Bond had botched it by coming to the conclusion that Q wasn’t considering leaving MI6 (sparing Q his life); the mission report had been filed the morning after their ‘date’... and Bond had _continued_ to pursue Q.

After putting everything back, covering his tracks, and hiding in his own office, Q spent hours going over it in his mind without reaching any real conclusion. 

It all sort of balanced out, he thought — Bond had been an effective distraction and useful in keeping Q off the chopping block. Real affection had been offered. But then Q had to go and piss him off at lunch and send him into a tailspin which spanned continents.

A week later, he was still ambivalent — and worse, he was slipping into a dangerous depression. He could feel the self-loathing, hopelessness, and apathy creep back into his bones, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Nearly three weeks after that, not much had changed. He was still confused, deeply depressed, and mostly just fucking tired. On top of it all, he was worried about Bond. Some time around the twentieth day after losing contact with him, the whispers had begun: 007 might well be dead.

Q had believed otherwise. He knew just how stubborn Bond could be.

And now, Bond was sitting in a stairwell nearly close enough to touch.

Q took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. Now what was he supposed to do?

 

~~~

 

In the end, Bond ran out of cigarettes. He’d been down to a quarter of a pack after the stopover in Turkey, so no surprise there. He hadn’t had time to buy more — or better, for that matter — and hadn’t bothered with the duty free at Heathrow. Hell, he wasn’t even certain that they sold cigarettes anymore. Damned politically correct, environmentally overprotective, health-conscious bastards.

He kicked the butts down into the no-man’s-land far at the foot of the stairwell and carried the rucksack down to Q Branch simply because _down_ was easier than _up_. He’d find one of the techs and hand everything off. There was even a chance he could escape MI6 without _actually_ reporting to M, if he could borrow a computer for an hour to type up an after action report. Of course, that would require a bit of fast talking to explain some of his tactical decisions, but he could craft elaborate lies in his sleep if need be.

Or he could go to Medical, get a stronger prescription, and find someone to drive him home. Of course, Medical would want scans and blood tests and probably after-the-fact vaccination updates, since he’d neglected to stop in before leaving the country.

He was debating the strategic advantage of a carefully placed explosive or two — nothing on Silva’s scale; just enough to cover his escape — when he pushed open the door to Q Branch and saw Q crossing the cubicle farm. Bond nearly ducked back into the stairwell. He should have been invisible, since the stairs were tucked into a dark corner far down the wall from the more brightly lit bank of lifts, but Q was looking his way.

So he stepped out, watching the way Q’s eyes studied his face, dropped to the sling, bounced to the rucksack over his other shoulder, returned to the sling, and then came back to his face, all in quick succession. Bond stopped at the stairs leading down into the pit of desks; Q walked up to the top step.

“Not as bad as some your past missions, but that still looks painful.” Q’s expression didn’t betray anything; he looked as professional and detached as he ever had. He waved to the rucksack. “I assume that’s for us. Shall I take it off your hands?” He didn’t move towards Bond, though. He stood where he was, waiting.

Feeling unusually self-conscious, Bond took the rucksack from his shoulder and offered it to Q, fighting the weight just a bit. Then he drew the Walther left-handed — he’d changed the holster around at some point, which had required digging holes in the leather with a stolen knife. He dropped the magazine into his right hand and fought the pull of the spring and his own arm to rack the slide back and eject the chambered round.

He nodded to the rucksack. “There’s financial data on those phones in there. They’re the ones used for banking,” Bond said as he handed over the weaponry. “No idea what’s on the laptops, but they thought it worth my life to keep me away from them, so you’ll probably find something.”

“Good thinking. Thank you, I’ll take a look.” Q’s eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at Bond’s eyes, probably cataloging his pupil restriction. “I hope you’re headed to Medical from here.”

“I need to write my report. Regulations,” Bond lied. 

“In that case, I’ll put a priority on processing these. Should have some data for you within an hour or two.” Q gave a him a brief nod, lifted the bag to his shoulder, and turned to leave.

Q looked tired and detached from his surroundings; even the hint for Bond to visit Medical seemed more procedural than concerned. Maybe Q really didn’t care for Bond beyond friendship. That would be for the best, actually, Bond told himself, but it still felt like a change from how things had been before.

Was Bond looking at Q through something like nostalgia, rather than accuracy? He was damned tempted to say something stupid, probably starting with ‘Come home with me’, but he knew that was post-mission stress rather than a rational thought. He kept his mouth shut, for once.

“Q,” he found himself saying instead, and that he _definitely_ blamed on post-mission stress.

Q stopped and turned, head tilted expectantly. He didn’t seem angry, or nervous, or anticipatory, or hopeful. “Yes, 007?” He didn’t smile, and no twitch at the corner of his mouth indicated that he might even be thinking about offering one. His eyes, which Bond had come to expect to be wrinkled in amusement, or annoyance, or thoughtfulness, seemed nothing but... tired. Even a little unfocused.

Bond _always_ had something to say. Three-quarters dead, surrounded by enemies arguing over who could kill him the slowest, and his primary talent — other than somehow surviving — was the ability to snap back with something. Anything. Now, the best his mind could supply was to ask about office gossip, which would have not only irreparably damaged both his self-image and his reputation but proven that the only place he should be at the moment was Medical.

So instead he shook his head and said, “Sorry. It’s nothing,” before he turned for the lifts, catching a brief look of disappointment on Q’s face. He would have hesitated, maybe even turned back to look again, but he was already moving, and he’d come to a truce with his exhaustion that let him stay upright as long as he didn’t do anything foolish, like sudden changes of direction.

So he went to the lift instead, and he refused to look back and see if Q was still down in the middle of the techs or if he’d gone back to his office. Thinking about the crowd in the cubicle farm made Bond feel at least a little better, though; if anything was going to be said — and he strongly doubted it, but painkillers tended to make his behaviour somewhat unpredictable — it didn’t need to be said in front of Q’s entire senior staff.

 

~~~

 

Well, that hadn’t gone as badly as it could have. Q, as indecisive as ever, didn’t know whether to feel relieved or unhappy with the way the conversation had gone.

“Information Protocol Three,” he told his staff as he divided up the contents of the rucksack. “I expect quick efficiency, please — this is now our current priority. I expect preliminary results within the hour.”

His technicians, who lately had taken to not approaching him unless necessary, all nodded and silently went to work, cracking phone cases open, pulling out memory and sim cards to plug into their workstations. He reserved the two laptops for himself and kept the Walther balanced on top as he walked back to his own office. 

 _Relieved_ , he decided when he finally made it back to the blessed solitude of his desk. The encounter hadn’t been painful, which was a significant plus. Bond hadn’t said anything hurtful or dismissive, though it was obvious that he hadn’t actually wanted a run-in with Q. For a moment, Q had even thought he was going to duck back into the stairwell.

Q brushed his hand along the grip of the Walther. He was just too damned tired to think about it anymore. He knew his treacherous brain would relive the meeting over and over later, looking for clues in words, behaviour, and expression to be fully analyzed. But it could wait.

He pushed the gun to the side and reached for his screwdrivers. Before he had a chance to open one of the first cases, there was a knock on his door. One of his sharper technicians, an older woman named Danielle, peeked in. “Sir. The phone I’m working on has been used to purchase an airline ticket to the UK. There’s some problem with the watchlist. Known terrorist ID, but the photo is Agent 007’s.”

Immediately, Q saw what must have happened. Without funds, Bond had used the closest resource at hand, either not considering or not caring that he’d end up with the Border Agency after him.

“Bring me the mobile while I ring up the Border Agency. I’d really rather not have an armed counterterrorism response team knocking on our doors,” Q said, though privately, he found the idea amusing. He could imagine Bond trying to argue that he wasn’t a terrorist, while everyone in MI6 snickered around him. He could just picture piercing blue eyes and a crooked grin trying to charm his way out of it.  

Assuming he _could_ , in his current state.

Q frowned to himself as he mentally reviewed how... how _wrecked_ the agent looked, hovering on the edges of Q Branch.  It was true that a scruffy beard, an obviously injured arm, and the smell of too many cigarettes wasn’t the worst shape Bond had ever come back in.The state of Bond’s pupils implied codeine use, which was of concern given his high pain tolerance. More troubling, he’d looked strained and too old for his years, less like an immortal lion and more like he was simply waiting to die.

But most worrying was the lack of his customary cocky grin and flirtatious behaviour. Of all the Double O agents, Bond had the most field hours, the most experience, and the highest record of ‘should have died but didn’t’ moments. Shot, stabbed, captured, tortured — Bond _always_ came back, stronger than ever. Except this time, something seemed to be missing.

“Did you want me to take those laptops?” Danielle offered. She was leaning against the doorway, holding the door propped open with one foot, and smiling at Q in a proprietary, fond sort of way. She was easily twenty years his senior and very good at her job, though not quite good enough or ambitious enough to have made it past the rank of senior support technician. Major Boothroyd had always liked her.

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” he responded, lifting the least charred and dented of the two to offer her.

She came in and took the laptop, asking conspiratorially, “Will you be leaving early today, then?”

He was sure he looked ridiculous, mouth gaping open, staring at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, 007’s back,” she pointed out, tucking the laptop under her arm. Then she gave him a sly smile and said, “I’ve been married thirty years. Nothing shocks me anymore.”

It had been a month since he’d seen Bond. Before then, they’d only had a couple of days of foolish infatuation to their name. He’d been certain that he’d escaped the office rumour mill unscathed. “We are not involved, Danielle,” he said as much to himself as to her. 

She huffed at him and said, “The last time a man looked at me that way, he proposed the next morning. So go keep him from getting arrested, and then let me know if we need to take your calls.” With a last smile at him, she headed for the door.

He suddenly wanted nothing more than to just crawl into Bond’s lap and apologise, or demand Bond crawl into his lap and do the apologising, but with effort he pushed it aside. “Right, well,” he said to himself. “Border Agency first.”

 

~~~

 

It took fifteen minutes for Q to prove his identity, find someone at the Home Office authorised to make decisions, and escalate the situation to Tanner. If the UK’s security controls had worked properly from the beginning, Bond would’ve been met at the airport and identified. Something had broken down, and Q trusted Tanner to track it. Well, maybe ‘trusted’ was too strong a word for his feelings about Tanner. He felt assured of the man’s efficiency and ability to do his job properly, even if he still felt leftover rage irrationally cloud his vision a bit every time he laid eyes on the man.

Then he went upstairs, thinking the matter important enough for a personal follow-up. Since he was only seen in the executive corridors once a month for mandatory meetings, his presence there would add a level of urgency to the matter. If some overenthusiastic border agent got the idea to play cowboy and capture this ‘foreign terrorist’ himself, Bond would be hiring someone to get blood out of the grout in his foyer. And it wouldn’t be his blood.

Outside the door to the executive offices — the spacious corner suite shared by M, Tanner, and Moneypenny — he heard Bond say loudly, “You know everyone, Eve. You’ve got to know _someone_ who’s interested.”

“I’m not a dating service,” Moneypenny protested, before her voice dropped to a low murmur.

Against his better judgment, Q paused, listening.

“I can find a dating service myself,” Bond interrupted. “I need someone who’s been vetted.”

“Security clearance isn’t supposed to be the basis for starting a relationship.”

“Bullshit,” Bond fired back. “You know as well as I do what a colossal pain in the arse it is to date a civilian. What about a girlfriend, then?”

“He made it clear that he’s not interested in women. Really, Bond, what business is it of yours, anyway?”

What little hope Q had held out against the notion that Bond was looking for a new relationship was crushed under the weight of the realisation that they were talking about _him._

“Have you spoken to him in the last month? Have you seen him?”

“They all live in the basement. _No one_ sees them. I get the feeling they like it that way.”

“Or they’re _used to it_ ,” Bond countered. “Just... keep an eye out for someone for him.”

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“What the hell would he want with me?”

“Not — Bond!” she said, shocked. “You’re not even — I meant, why don’t you set him up with someone yourself?”

Very quietly, almost too quietly for Q to hear, Bond said, “Don’t presume you know me, Eve.” Then, more loudly, he said, “Find him someone.”

“James — James!” she called loudly, exasperated. A moment later, Q heard a door slam; that had to be Tanner’s office, since M’s doors were electronically controlled.

That _bastard_. Fucking self-righteous, presumptive, cruel sonofabitch. Q’s grip on his tablet tightened to the point of pain, but he ignored it in the effort to get himself under control and not give himself away. The murderous rage he’d always had simmering in his core, the one that had got him into so much trouble as a boy and a teenager, the one that he’d thought he had an iron grip on, was threatening to cost him everything by pushing him through that door. 

He lost track of how long exactly he stood there, getting himself under control. A tiny rational voice kept telling him he needed to go in there and report the border snafu to Tanner, but he didn’t know if he could do it in his irrational state — especially not with Bond in there.

God, he needed out of here.


	11. Chapter 11

The decision to leave was taken out of Q’s hands when he heard the soft approach of someone coming down the hall behind him. Now he had to move — forward or backward, it didn’t matter — but he couldn’t be seen lurking outside the door like an idiot. He was a fucking department head.

As calmly as he could manage, he stepped into Moneypenny’s office. He could see her surprised reaction to his ice-cold expression, but didn’t let it trouble him. “I need to speak with M, please.”

She blinked at him, looking away only at the last moment when she picked up her desk phone. “Sir. Q to see you,” she said, casting a worried look his way. After a moment, she set the phone back down and asked, “Do you mind waiting? He’s got a phone appointment. Shouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“I do mind, actually. It’s rather urgent. 007 has been flagged as being on a watch list, and it’s been something of a hassle dealing with the Border Agency. So unless you want a counterterrorism unit here in short order, I really do require his immediate attention.” Q watched her dispassionately, giving nothing away.

Another secretary might have hesitated, but Moneypenny had been a field agent. She looked at him more steadily before saying, “Tanner’s in a meeting with Bond at the moment. He has contacts at the Home Office...”

Ten minutes, he told himself. If he couldn’t handle ten minutes without snapping, then he really didn’t belong here anyway. He just had to do this one last thing before he could either leave or blow things up in R&D or maybe do both, depending on how it went. “I’ll wait for M.”

Moneypenny couldn’t quite hide the subtle signs of relief. She nodded and turned resolutely to her computer, though she spent more time playing with the scroll wheel on her mouse than actually clicking or typing.

“So, how are things underground?” she asked without looking up. Her tension was a marked difference from her flirtation of just a month ago.

Q stood rigidly, refusing to make her more comfortable by looking away. “Bland as ever,” he responded, tone clipped but not unpleasant.

She took a deep breath and looked up at him. “You never did get back to me about that concert,” she said, managing a bit more genuine smile.

“The person I was going to invite turned out not to be worth my time.” He managed a very small smile back. “Perhaps another time.”

“Well, as it happens, I’m free tomorrow night. And before you say it” — her smile approached a grin, briefly — “I’m not hitting on you. It could just be fun.”

The last thing he wanted was to go out tomorrow night and pretend to be sociable, or even just not homicidal. But he decided it wise not to anger Moneypenny — he might need her later to help bail him out of jail if the next hour didn’t go well. “I’m afraid I can’t tomorrow. But I agree, we should do something fun. Maybe next week?”

“I’d like that.” She turned away from her computer, asking casually, “So, does this mean you’re seeing someone?”

Oh, _great_. He _really_ didn’t want to go down this conversation path. “Not much for dating, actually. Went through a bad patch of it before I started working here and gave it up for a lost cause. Prefer the company of my wires and chemicals, to be honest.”

Sympathetically, she said, “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person. If you don’t go out, you won’t find someone.”

“Who said I actually want anyone?” He looked at Moneypenny dispassionately, trying to communicate how much he really didn’t want to be talking about this. Especially not with Bond just a few yards away, door or no door between them.

Because he’d overheard her and Bond, he caught the way her eyes flicked to Tanner’s door. “I suppose,” she conceded, glancing back down at her computer. The light on her desk phone — M’s line — lit up. “A minute early,” she said. “Hopefully he’ll be done quickly.”

Q resisted the urge to pace or throw something, but only just barely. He even thought about pulling up Angry Birds on his tablet to play with the sound off, which would give him the satisfaction of doing something while looking like was being productive. “Perhaps I should just wait in my office? You could call me when —”

Tanner’s door opened abruptly, and Bond came out, looking coldly furious and extremely dangerous. He made it two steps, throwing a glare Moneypenny’s way, before he spotted Q and hesitated. Fortunately, Q was in the perfect mental space to not feel intimidated whatsoever by an angry Double O agent.  He didn’t flinch from Bond’s gaze or aggressive body language, holding his ground with an equally cold stare.

“Good. Just the man I needed to talk to,” Bond said, walking over to Q. He didn’t lift a hand to touch him. “We need to talk. Excuse us, Moneypenny.” He gestured Q to the door leading back out to the hallway.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for you right now, 007. There was a problem with your crossing back into the country with a faulty ID. I need to sort the mess out with M before Border Agency decides to send someone here to collect you.” Q didn’t budge from his spot in front of Moneypenny’s desk.

“Let them,” Bond said bleakly. This time, his left hand twitched up before he caught himself. “This won’t take five minutes. We’ll use the conference room across the hall.”

“I’ve already wasted five minutes standing here —”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Bond muttered, wrapping his hand around Q’s wrist.

Some other time he would have enjoyed the contact, laced with possessiveness as it was. But now, Q’s first instinct was to break out of the hold and perhaps attempt to show his displeasure through a vengeful punch to the neck (though he’d be lucky if Bond let him land it). The temptation to brawl like a teenager was quickly overwhelmed, however, by the true, colder nature of Q’s fury.

Some people got loud — physically and vocally — when they got angry. Not Q. His tendency was to go still and quiet, until the perfect opportunity allowed him to show his displeasure.

He dropped the tablet on Moneypenny’s desk. “The passcode is 2587. M can review the information while I’m out. I will be in very shortly” — he glared at Bond — “to explain.”

Moneypenny nodded, though she didn’t look away from Bond. “James,” she warned softly.

“Feel free to get me fired,” Bond told her flatly, and headed for the door, never letting go of Q’s wrist.  

The conference room across the hall was meant for executive branch use. Bond ignored the sign beside the door and shoved it open. He pulled Q inside, looked around, and let go of Q’s wrist to point at the environmental control panel on the wall. “Can you disable the surveillance in here?”

Q didn’t answer, but walked over to the room’s electronics control panel, logged in, and shut down all eyes and ears in the room. When he finished, he looked expectantly over at Bond.

Bond carefully kept his distance from Q, leaving four feet between them. Quietly, he said, “Your behaviour has the executive branch concerned. If they don’t see a change, they may assess you as a security risk or worse.”

That was what this was about? Q had wondered if Tanner would revisit Bond’s initial conclusions after he slipped back into his more typical withdrawn behaviour, but his performance had been nothing short of excellent and he hadn’t heard any worrying rumours.

“My behaviour and work are beyond reproach,” he told Bond. “If they’ve decided they can’t reliably control me after they let my original leash handlers die, then there’s probably nothing I can do to change their minds.”

“You shouldn’t have to lose your career because of me. You have a future here. After what happened, Tanner won’t take my word anymore, but if you’re careful — if you pay attention — you can put a stop to this.”

 _Him?_ Bond thought this was about him? Q stared at him in disbelief. “You really are an arrogant prick, aren’t you? First of all, this has nothing to do with you. This has been coming since they gave me the option of being their pet or being eliminated. Major Boothroyd’s death just sped up their timetable. Second, who says I have a future here? I’m the Quartermaster, Bond. There is _nowhere to go_ after that. And I’ve already worked here longer than most manage — longer than you even. I just started younger, so you don’t see it.”

“That just means you get to die younger,” Bond said in disgust. “I’m trying to _help_ you. They’re not going to give you a gold watch and a pat on the back and send you off to the countryside to retire. They’re suspicious, and that means they _will_ investigate.”

Bond looked desperate, tired, and in need of sleep, a shave, and a bed. Watching his fury on Q’s behalf, his earnest belief that he could save him from Mallory and Tanner, took a good deal of the fight out of Q. He could almost believe that Bond still cared.

That thought hurt more than he’d expected.

With a tired sigh, he dropped down onto one of the overstuffed leather chairs. He pulled up his legs to rest his heels on the seat and wrapped his arms around his knees. “I understand, and I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do. But you don’t have all the facts. I managed to keep most of my youthful indiscretions out of government files. The way I started out? I will never be trusted unless I play my role perfectly. This is where it was always going to end up, Bond. I’m too smart, and too...” Q let his forehead fall on his knees. “Too prone to boredom and restlessness. I could stay on as Quartermaster for another ten, twenty, thirty years and still end up in this exact spot.”

Bond took a step forward. “Then we have a problem,” he said quietly, “because I’m not going to let that happen to you. Would it help if I left? Transferred to an overseas station?”

Q lifted his head back up to glare at him. “Don’t be an idiot. This has nothing to do with you, Bond.”

“You were fine until I pushed you too far.”

“Oh, right. Because people who are ‘fine’ routinely find themselves under internal investigation by someone under orders to eliminate them if necessary.” His glare turned into something colder as he looked at Bond. “Did you even hesitate to take the assignment?”

Bond tensed, though he met Q’s eyes as he said, “No. Why would I? For all I knew, you could’ve been more of a threat than Silva.”

“Maybe I am.” Q’s voice dropped even further, as if weighed down by his exhaustion. He was so tired of all this. “Do you know why I came to see you at that ridiculous spa of yours the morning you left?” Q closed his eyes, trying to recall the feeling of his hand on Bond’s wrist, the smell of the garden, the crookedness of Bond’s smile. “I had a project that morning. Nothing new or different or challenging. In fact, it was the same sort of project I was tasked with on my first day at MI6. Ten years of a routine in the making.”

He looked up, meeting Bond’s gaze, wanting to watch his reaction. “I blew up an arms manufacturing facility using a remote connection to some poor engineer’s laptop. Well, I say poor, but given that he’s the only survivor, I guess I shouldn’t feel sorry for him. Seventy people dead, Bond. Some, though not many, were probably civilians. And you know what I was thinking when I did it? How bloody fucking _boring_ it was because I’ve done it so many times.” He paused. “What was Silva’s body count, Bond? And given what you’ve just learned, what do you think mine is? In the thousands? And I’m _bored_ with it all.”

Bond never flinched. “I stopped counting,” he said, expressionless. “I’ve killed civilians, non-combatants, children. I’d take down a whole bloody building if necessary to get my target. And every time I come back, I’m convinced there’s something broken in me, but that doesn’t stop me from going right back out, first chance I get.”

Bond finally moved, pacing to the corner of the room. His right hand, held against his chest, curled into a fist before flexing open again. “You’re bored. So bloody what?” he asked, his voice still as calm as if he were discussing the weather. “The fact that you’re not a sobbing wreck in the corner means that you’re doing exactly what you should be doing, because the next bastard who gets the job might not be able to handle it, and then where the hell would England be?”

Q sighed, feeling some of the pressure lift at Bond’s blatant acceptance and approval. “I agree. I really, really do. It’s Tanner who needs convincing.”

Bond nodded. “Which is why you’re going to go in there and explain that whatever you’ve done wrong this month is because of me.”

The mad laugh finally escaped him. “As much as I wouldn’t mind handing the responsibility over, it won’t work. I was in trouble before you, and my behaviour will stay the same long after you’ve...” Left? Quit hanging around with him in labs and ranges? Died in the field?

The thought hurt.

“You don’t ever have to deal with me. Whatever you say to Tanner, I won’t come after you. I’m too old to keep doing this for much longer. I can disappear. I can go back to being dead.”

“Don’t be stupid. You are my favourite distraction. You’ve —”

“I’m _not,_ ” Bond snapped in a sudden, terrifying fury, taking two steps towards Q, who couldn’t hide a flinch back. As soon as he did, Bond froze at the edge of the table, with one chair between them. His fingers dug into the back of the nearest chair. “If all I wanted was to be a bloody _distraction_ —”

He clenched his jaw, silencing himself. Then he turned, shoving the chair away, and pulled the door open so he could storm angrily out into the hall.

Q let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He stared at the four fingernail-marks scored into the leather. He took another breath and forced himself to look at the situation rationally.

It took him a minute, but Q finally realised what was really going on.

Bond had actually formed an emotional attachment to Q. And the man was a damn six-year-old in dealing with it.

Then, Q took that thought a step further. Six-year-olds were possessive, handsy, and overly physical — perfect for him, really.

He jumped out of his chair to follow Bond, who, in his anger, had already managed to disappear from sight. It didn’t take long for Q to realise that in this state Bond would be avoiding everyone, which meant the stairwell. He dashed back into the executive offices to snatch his tablet off Moneypenny’s desk. Ignoring her confused question, he pressed a thumb to the fingerprint reader that would allow him to access all the tablet’s functions. When the tablet confirmed his identity, he accessed the building’s security systems, looking for any sign of Bond at the monitored doors.

“Q?”

He didn’t look back at M as the building’s security access list came up. Stairwell, as he’d thought. It looked like Bond was making his way towards the street side of the building, rather than the walkway by the Thames. That meant he was looking for a taxi — and Q had time to catch him.

 

~~~

 

The problem was that in Bond’s haste to return to England, he’d managed to make it impossible to _leave_ again, at least via the more convenient airports. Worse, his car was trapped in long-term parking at Heathrow, assuming no one from MI6 had gone around to fetch it, which meant he needed other transportation.

A month in the field hadn’t fixed a damned thing — not for himself and not for Q. Bond should have damned well stayed in Alexandria. From there, he’d had a hundred different destinations where he could disappear again.

 _Favourite distraction,_ he thought, telling himself not to let anger get the better of him. Well, not any more than it already had. It wasn’t his fault that Q was the only one actually following the no-relationship, no-emotional-entanglement, no-commitment rules that Bond had managed not to break for seven bloody years.

Fucking Tanner and this damned assignment that had started it all.

The MI6 building was a security nightmare dreamt up by some artist, rather than by a sensible military expert in fortifications. Because of that, it was pierced through with staircases, utility corridors, and access points that let Bond start his disappearance properly. Rather than thinking about Q, he let the necessary details of his new plan occupy his mind as he reached the broad hallway that led to one of the loading docks. He’d disappeared before, both intentionally and not, but this was his first time with London as a starting point. He could probably safely go back home, unless the Home Office mess hadn’t been settled. Damn. He should’ve taken care of that _before_ walking out, but he really hadn’t wanted to hear the rest of what Q had to say.

He hit the door hard with his left hand, expecting to push the bar and unlatch it. It held, though, and he actually walked into it with jarring force.

This door was never locked. Hell, he hadn’t known it could be locked. Even MI6 had to play by certain fire codes, and this was an emergency exit door. For anyone unauthorised, an alarm would sound; he knew full well that he was authorised, having used this door a couple of times in the past.

He put his shoulder to it and gave a hard push, but the door was actually locked and not just blocked by a delivery piled up on the other side. Frustrated, he took a deep breath and tried to recall the next nearest exit, when he heard footsteps.

His right hand came up an inch before his elbow protested. Not that it mattered. He’d turned in the Walther already. The closest thing he had to a weapon was the fire extinguisher on the wall. He took a step towards it and looked expectantly down the hall, wondering how the hell the Border Agency had got here so quickly.

But it was Q who burst into sight, slightly out of breath, with a frantic look on his face that melted into a smile when he looked at Bond. “There you are. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but it’s actually quite rude to make a declaration like that and leave without letting the other person respond,” he panted, slowing to a more normal walk as he approached Bond. “And if you had been successful in your vanishing act, then I’d have to track you down, and then I _really_ would have got in trouble with Tanner and M.”

“Do you realise how _spectacularly_ unwise this is?” Bond warned quietly. “Unlock the door.”

“‘Unwise’ would be going back to the tedium of MI6 without you, waiting to be retired at the end of another Double O’s gun.” Q’s grin didn’t evaporate as he cautiously stepped forward.

“No.” Bond shook his head, lifting his left hand to warn Q off. The feelings he’d unintentionally allowed himself to develop were there, but scrambling his reaction to what Q had said earlier. Love and betrayal were too tangled up inside him, leaving his instincts cross-wired. He needed distance he wouldn’t get while trapped in a hallway with the one person he wasn’t ready to face.

“This doesn’t have to be all that complicated, really.” Q took the last step forward that brought him within arm’s reach. “Can’t I just have you? Be _your_ distraction, too? For as long as it works for both of us?”

Bond’s instincts screamed for him to pull Q close, trap him against the wall, and prove that ‘distraction’ was hardly the word to use for what he was feeling, but he couldn’t do that — not to Q or to himself.

“You don’t know a bloody thing about me, do you? If I wanted a _distraction_ ” — Bond growled the word out in such a flash of rage that Q backed away — “do you _actually_ think I couldn’t have a dozen just by walking through the damned building?”

Despite being a bit wild-eyed, Q huffed in a fairly convincing show of annoyance. “Fine, maybe ‘distraction’ isn’t the right word. Partners in recreation? Emotional harbours? Enabler of affection? I think we’re too old for the term ‘boyfriend’ but if that’s your preference, I suppose I can learn to live with it.”

Bond stared at Q in disbelief. “This isn’t a bloody negotiation! Labels aren’t going to change anything — especially since there isn’t anything to change. Find someone else for a casual shag.” The words were out before he realised just how many times they’d been thrown at him, and he couldn’t suppress a short, humourless bark of laughter.

Q’s expression darkened, some of his earlier iciness flinting in his eyes, and his voice dropped. “What, in any of our interactions, leads you to believe I have offered you anything _casually_?”

“So _now_ you want more?” Bond demanded. “Convenient timing. The last time we saw each other, you made it clear that this was _only_ casual.”

Visibly flinching, Q looked away. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said in a much softer voice. “That day at your spa, I tracked you down after I realised that I was a heartless mass murderer, and then I thought you called me weak...” He glanced up to meet Bond’s gaze tentatively. “I am truly sorry.”

Bond searched critically for the tells of a lie, of deception, but saw none of them. He was uncomfortable but also remorseful, as if this all had been a misunderstanding. It had definitely been a wake-up call for Bond, reminding him why he didn’t do this with anyone. He’d had a dozen casual affairs in the last six months, and not a single one had affected him, once the pleasant morning-after feeling had dissipated, until Q. Not once had he even been tempted to track down a partner for a second or third round, or considered an actual date after they’d both got what they’d wanted.

Until Q.

“Fine,” he said, his voice still icy and distant, though the anger started to drop away. Q had misunderstood; that didn’t mean that actually _acknowledging_ these feelings was a wise course for either of them. “Apology accepted.”

Rather than appearing relieved, Q just looked defeated. He pulled his tablet up and quickly ran his fingers over it. “Fine. Good. You know what? I don’t have anything more to offer than what I’ve extended, both here and in your bed. I don’t want to have to _convince_ you of anything. I’m just too fucking tired.” A few more taps, and Bond heard the door unlock behind him.

Then, silently, Q turned and walked back into the building, leaving Bond to escape, alone.


	12. Chapter 12

Q trudged back upstairs, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on him. That hadn’t gone well at all. Those damn romantic comedies had lied. Chasing after your love and baring your heart to them got you exactly nothing, apparently. Even in the spy movies it worked, so where had Q failed in adhering to the standard formula?

He spared a very brief glance at Moneypenny, who looked at him sympathetically. “How is M handling the Border Agency issue?” he asked, checking to see if the office door was opened. It wasn’t.

“I think they’re sending some techs over for verification.” She leaned back from her computer, taking in his expression, and he remembered again that she’d been a field agent not that long ago. “Where’s Bond?”

“I have no idea,” he answered honestly. Bond could be on his way to China for all he knew. “If Tanner doesn’t need me, I’ll wait for the techs in my office.”

“After a mission —” She cut off, looking evasively away, towards Tanner’s door. “He didn’t _do_ anything, did he?”

Q stared at her, slightly horrified by the insinuation. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She nodded, unable to hide the relieved way her posture relaxed. “Tanner’s in with M. They might be sorting out this issue.” Sympathetically, she looked up at him and added, “If you want to go back downstairs, go ahead. I can call if they need you.”

“You know what? I actually really need to talk to Tanner and M about a separate issue. Can you ask if they have a moment for me?” Q looked down at the tablet in his hands. At least one good thing had come from his brief association with Bond: He had no reason to fear consequences. He’d go in there and make his case, and then he’d do the stupid thing and give them an ultimatum: trust him and leave him alone or ‘retire’ him immediately. He would give them until morning to make their decision; he was sick of waiting around for the ax to fall.

Moneypenny glanced at the phone; all the lights were off. She picked it up and hit the intercom to M’s office. “Sir. Q to see you. Yes, sir, again,” she said, giving Q a half-shrug. Then she hung up and opened the security door. “Be careful.”

Q nodded gratefully and walked into the airlock-style entryway, wondering what awaited him on the other side.

 

~~~

 

For so many people, the London Railway System was nothing more than the quickest line from Point A to Point B. Most of London’s population braced themselves for riding the Tube the same way they did when a bike messenger pushed his way into an already crowded elevator — bodies ready for unpleasant contact, minds seeking refuge from the monotony by skipping ahead to where they were going or behind to what they’d left.

For Q, that had never been true. The Tube — and more importantly, its miles upon miles of abandoned stations — was the first home he’d ever really had since the death of the programmer and graphic artist. It had happened quite by accident, actually — he was thirteen and running away from a bastard of a caretaker who (even now) he couldn’t bear to think about. For months, he had been secretly hacking the foster system’s appointment software and databases to get choice placements for other kids who, by some crime or another, could pay him for it. He saved and saved, hiding it all in a pair of out-of-season shoes Max never looked twice at.

One early Sunday morning, when he knew Max would be passed out in his room and incredibly unlikely to wake up before ten in the morning, Q had stuffed everything he owned, and most of the lighter contents of Max’s kitchen cabinets, into a garbage bag and left as quietly as he possibly could. He spent a small amount of his cash on buying a proper (if used) rucksack to exchange for the garbage bag, and made his way into the tunnels.

He spent the first part of the day simply _riding_... enjoying the sensation of moving forward, occasionally changing trains, not caring where he went. But he soon got nervous about the security personnel giving him looks, and he dismounted somewhere south of the river.

It didn’t take long for French to find him, exploring the tunnels and eating through his food stash. 

“You’ll be safe with us. No adults allowed,” the charmer had whispered in his ear, pulling him to the deep-level abandoned station at Trafalgar Square, where the tile was falling out in chunks the size of footballs, and the old electrical equipment promised him hours of entertainment.

Q had followed French, excited to see the bright, if grimy, faces of other teenagers laughing and playing games in a brightly lit ventilation shaft. Before he let himself be dragged into their little, cluttered, crow’s nest of a home, he stopped and waited for the new boy to meet his eyes.

“Do the lights ever go out?”

Matt met his eyes, ready to make a snarky joke, before closing his mouth and tightening his grip on Q’s filthy hand.

“Never,” he promised.

Now, as an adult, Q would look out the windows and watch snatches of well-explored tunnels go by. _There is where I found that puppy,_ he would think, passing Lord’s. _That’s where I lost my right incisor in a pipe fight_ , he remembered, passing Aldgate East. He still hated that station.

But on his way home tonight, Q wasn’t thinking of his young adulthood spent avoiding adults of any kind in the Underground. He was instead thinking of Bond. Trying to make sense of Bond.

Q was a genius of the technical variety; emotions and relationships weren’t exactly his forte. His relationships had always been based on what he could do for the other party. As a child, the only reason people took him was because they got compensation. When he left foster care, he was immediately scooped up by Matt and his gang of delinquents. His pretty, delicate features ensured him favour and a place in Matt’s bed, but none of the power Matt himself held. If he had ceased to be useful to Matt, he would have been cut loose, and he knew it.

Even M and Q, as much as he had loved them, took him in based on his usefulness. As much as he liked to think of them as his adopted parents, they made no effort to hide the fact that he was there to do a job, and he owed them. 

Now, with Bond, it turned out that what he wanted from Q had been a ruse, used to start his investigation — but only in the beginning. Though Q had no doubt that Bond really did want his goodwill, he would have easily earned that without manipulating Q into a relationship. He hadn’t needed to continue their intimacy.

Even more staggering, Bond had closed the investigation and _kept coming back_. Even just thinking about what had happened at the gun range, when Bond was under no obligation to talk to Q whatsoever, sent a thrill through his body. He closed his eyes and imagined Bond’s hands and arms wrapping him in a strong embrace, lips brushing and nipping at his ear.

Then the disastrous lunch date. And Bond disappearing to Africa. And a month of silence. And Bond telling Moneypenny to find Q a date. (Any good feeling he had from remembering the shooting range vanished at _that_ particular indignity.)

But, then... Bond’s fury on his behalf was heartwarming, and the curl of his hand over Q’s wrist was, once Q got over his anger, so very, very welcome. Once Q had allowed his outrage to dissipate and started to think about the overall theme of Bond’s words, he realised they were all focused on what _Bond_ could do for _Q_.

It made his heart clench in a wholly unfamiliar way.

Bond seemed to think that Q’s troubles were somehow Bond’s fault, and that Q would be much better off without him. Bond didn’t even think twice about dismissing Q’s status as a threat to MI6 — which Q finally realized was a show of faith, not an assumption of his weakness.

But Bond’s anger at Q’s use of the word ‘distraction’ was perhaps most telling of all. Q didn’t have any right to use the word ‘love’ so he made do with words and phrases that he could actually lay claim to. In his mind, where the worst thing that could happen to him was being allowed to sink in the despair of unfeeling nothingness, being a distraction was the highest form of praise. It was light in the darkness, an undemanding touch on his skin, a voice in his ear, all combining not to stop the flow of thought, but to keep it from turning in on him like a blade.

Q thought back to their first night together, when he’d decided that he’d do _anything_ to keep Bond for as long as they kept each other’s destruction at bay. His limited emotional vocabulary told him it was distraction he wanted, what he had to offer.

For his part, from what Q could tell from his files — and especially from what he learned about Bond and Vesper’s relationship — Bond was an all-or-nothing lover. He either indulged in casual sex, or gave up everything for his lover, just as he’d given up MI6 to be with Vesper — even if M hadn’t accepted his resignation.

Of course, Bond would demand everything in return. He’d been willing, however tentatively, to take an emotional risk that he’d carefully avoided for years, and now Q could see that Bond’s only demand had nothing to do with physical intimacy and everything to do with emotional reciprocity.

By labeling Bond a ‘distraction’, Q had unintentionally repudiated Bond’s feelings. It was no wonder why he’d run. Knowing Bond, he would find a way to shut off his feelings and _leave_. Q remembered every word of Bond’s after action report, when he’d coldly and bluntly recounted the circumstances of Vesper’s death by drowning and the disposal of her real boyfriend.

Today, though, Bond’s last act had been to _protect_ , not to hurt. He didn’t destroy Q’s career. He didn’t go from the conference room to M’s office to declare Q a liability to MI6. Instead he left, probably willing to give up everything he’d built at MI6, to cede his territory to Q.

Q, of course, couldn’t let that happen if there were any way to prevent it. He needed to figure out how to shift his vocabulary, adjust his viewpoint away from the technical (the _logical_ ) to the emotional. His attempt in the hallway had failed — spectacularly, in fact — but he was nothing if not persistent. He would go home and do his research. Psychology journals, self-help books, romance movies... he’d suffer through it all if it gave him even the slightest hint on how to move forward appropriately.

Then, as long as M and Tanner didn’t decide to ‘retire’ him as security threat, he’d track Bond down if he had to and try out his new vocabulary. 

 

~~~

 

The sky was dark with night and rain by the time Q escaped the Tube and jogged the last two streets to his building. He’d forgotten his umbrella at the office; thankfully, he’d remembered his coat. The rain managed to hold off until the last several meters, but when Q finally reached the outer door to his building, his hands were already numbed with cold and shaking too much to allow him to get the key in on the first try. By the time he made it into the elevator, up to his floor, and into his flat, he was thoroughly soaked and miserable.

So intent was Q on getting out of his wet clothes that he actually entered his flat, let go of the front door, and got halfway out of his coat before the feeling of _danger_ crawled over him. He stared into the dimly lit flat, heart pounding before skipping a beat altogether when the door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the hallway light and plunging the flat into complete darkness.

And as if that weren’t enough to rocket Q’s heart rate to unhealthy levels, the heavy stench of cigarette smoke carried on an impossible draft hit him. The living room window, his panicked brain managed to pinpoint — a window that hadn’t been open twenty hours ago, when he’d left for the office. When he’d left enough lights on in the flat to ensure he wouldn’t come home to darkness.

Q tried to use logic to control his fear and considered the chances that Tanner and M had come to their decision and sent one of the Double O agents to take care of him. He’d eavesdropped on enough missions to know a favourite technique was to ambush a target in his own home. The thought almost lured him into the living room without a care for his safety, until he realised the _other_ possibility: an enemy agent.

A distant, rational corner of his mind urged him to grab hold of the old-fashioned umbrella by the coat rack. It was too heavy for him to carry every day, but right now, it would make a perfect stabbing weapon. The most Q could manage, though, was a twitch of his fingers in the umbrella’s direction. He tried to tell himself that he was probably safe — there was no movement in the flat, no sound, no danger save the darkness and an open window carrying the smell of cigarettes. It was probably a burglar who’d come and gone already, in defiance of the steep drop out the window.

But he couldn’t move. His heart pounded to the rhythm of _too_ _dark, too dark, too dark._

Then he saw the flare of a cigarette burn bright in the open window on the far side of the living room. For an instant, hot red light shone on skin. Q stared, breathless, feeling like a hare caught under the shadow of a hawk, trying to become invisible through stillness.

As his eyes adjusted to the faint light of the city beyond the window, he picked out the silhouette of a man seated casually in the open window. His back was against the window frame; his legs straddled the sill.

Though he made no move, save to lower the cigarette as he exhaled a stream of pale smoke, Q’s skin crawled with the potential menace of the scene. Did the intruder have a gun in his other hand, perhaps hidden in the choking shadows, aimed right at Q’s heart? No, if this was one of the Double O’s, it would be a headshot, Q thought madly. It couldn’t be more than twenty-five or thirty feet from the living room window, through the archway, to the foyer where Q still stood. Every one of the Double O’s could hit a coin-sized target at that range.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to break from his terrified place by the front door, not even to run. And slowly, so slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping in through the rainy night sky, allowing him to see the washed-out, colourless details of his intruder’s identity.

Later, he decided it was being caught up in his phobia that caused him to take so long recognizing Bond’s profile against the night.

Startled, he let his bag slip off his shoulder to the floor. Only then did Bond turn to face him briefly.

“You’re late,” Bond said, words carried on smoke that he blew out into the night.

Q looked at the lamp on the desk table within arm’s reach of Bond. Now that he could see, at least a little bit, his eyes seemed drawn to the gleam of the polished steel armature and the domed metal shade.

“Turn on the light, please.”

Bond watched Q silently for a moment, and though Q couldn’t see Bond’s face, he knew Bond was studying him, taking in his quick breathing, clenched hands, and immobility. Finally, Bond brought his left arm in from the rain and set the cigarette between his lips. Water sheeted off what looked like a leather jacket that Q had never seen him wearing. He leaned forward and reached across his body to snap on the halogen desk lamp.

The welcome flood of brightness allowed Q to force himself away from where he was frozen in the foyer. He snapped on the hallway light and felt the icy bands of fear around his chest start to ease.

As Q started turning on lights, Bond returned to his window perch.

When the living room was finally as bright as day, Q turned back and saw that yes, Bond was in fact wearing a battered black leather jacket with zippers everywhere, a style that was twenty years out of date and classic, timeless, evoking images of pub brawls and motorcycles and a new, electrifying sort of danger that had nothing to do with MI6 and a licence to kill. Q tore his eyes from the jacket and saw Bond had paired the jacket with blue jeans so tight they looked painted on, worn a soft white from repeated wearing and washing, frayed cuffs trailing threads over scuffed black engineer boots.

Q was hurt and angry and cold and tired and coming off the adrenaline rush of fear, but oh god, Bond looked inhumanly good.

He turned away and found his voice, saying quickly, “I’m late because I decided to take your advice and do something utterly ill-advised. I had a meeting with Mallory and Tanner, and told them that even though my friends were gone, and I’d been having a hard time with it, I didn’t deserve their suspicion. My work is flawless, and I’m not going to do anything stupid like turn on the agency. I told them they had until morning to decide. Then I tried to stay as late as possible, making it convenient for them if they made up their mind. No word yet, though, and I was getting tired.”

The words came out in a rush; when nervous, he spoke too much, too quickly. He stopped himself for a breath and looked at Bond, who seemed content to sit in the window and smoke.

After the silence stretched uncomfortably between them, Q finally turned away to go to the kitchen. “Tea? I think we both could use the warmth.”

“If by ‘tea’ you mean the scotch that I put in your kitchen, then yes. I thought it polite to wait.”

“Polite,” Q muttered, going into the kitchen. His hands were shaking as he found two glasses and opened the untouched bottle of scotch. He was no expert, but he knew this was an expensive bottle, one he normally wouldn’t have purchased. He considered making himself tea, then decided the scotch was a better idea. He poured them each a tumbler’s worth and brought them back into the living room.

Bond was still perched in the window, head resting against the frame, eyes focused on the night. Q brought him his glass, refusing to meet Bond’s gaze.

Bond took a last drag of the cigarette before he stubbed it out against the sole of the wet boot dangling out over the pavement. Then he dropped the butt into the small rubbish bin that had sat beside Q’s desk. There were about fifteen other butts in there. Once Bond’s uninjured left hand was free, he took the glass and swung his rain-soaked leg back into the flat, sitting with his back to the drop. The view of those jeans from the front, Q noticed, was damned near obscene.

The first sip of scotch was enough to loosen Q’s throat enough to allow him to speak for the first time without a bitter tinge of panic. “Did you just stop by to say goodbye? That’s not like you, 007.”

Bond looked away, finishing half the drink in one go. “Christ, I don’t know which of us is worse at this,” he said bluntly.

“What do you want, Bond? It’s late, and I’ve just decided to thoroughly enjoy the evening in case M decides to ‘retire’ me in the morning.” Q tore his gaze away from Bond’s well-defined (and sinfully displayed) thighs to give him a tired, rueful smile.

“Fine. I work best with a deadline,” Bond said, pushing away from the window. Despite the chill that must have settled into his body, he moved with a predator’s grace, not even pausing when he bent enough to set his drink on the coffee table. Bond never looked away from Q’s eyes as he reached out with his left hand. Drops of rain fell from the sleeve of his jacket, and his skin was like ice, making Q flinch when Bond’s hand slid over the back of his neck.

Q wanted to surrender — oh, did he ever — but he doubted he could take any more ambiguity. “All right, Bond. You know what? This is a very nice turn of events, but on the off chance that I don’t get eliminated tomorrow, can you just tell me what’s going on _before_ we shag? I’m so goddamn sick of being left in the dark about the very big issues in my life.”

“I’m not a diversion,” Bond said, dragging his fingers up into Q’s wet hair. The strands tangled, sticking against each other, and the sudden pull was sharp. His eyes burned, but his expression was carefully neutral, hiding his thoughts — the mask Q imagined he wore when he killed. “I can be more, or I can leave you alone. Your choice.”

Q hadn’t actually had time to do the research he wanted to do in order to buff up his emotional vocabulary, so he wasn’t prepared to answer with any eloquence. He knew this was as close as Bond could probably get to saying _I love you_ , and he didn’t want to brush it away with a commentary on semantics. But Q also didn’t know how to say that there was no better thing to be than a distraction, that the drag of Bond’s fingers in his hair was fucking _transcendent_ — that a word like ‘love’ was far too trite to describe how Q would give anything, do anything, to keep Bond.

Q carefully followed Bond’s example and ducked to set his drink on the table. Bond allowed it, though he never released his tight, stinging grasp on Q’s hair, and he never looked away from Q’s face. The energy crackling between them was so thick that it nearly choked the words from Q’s throat, and the moment his hands were free, he reached for Bond’s shoulders to pull him close.

He dragged in a deep breath, smelling cigarettes and scotch and wet leather. Freed from Bond’s gaze, he found his voice and decided ineloquence would have to do. “More,” he said, his voice rough. “More is good. More than good. Great, really —”

Bond silenced the somewhat nervous, hopeful words, pulling Q hard off-balance. Q’s hands hit his chest, making Bond grunt in surprise at the pressure on his right arm. Before Q could think of apologizing or yelling at him for being careless or both, Bond pulled back on his hair, tipping his face up just enough that Bond could kiss him.

It was angry and desperate and demanding, full of everything that had been hidden from Bond’s carefully controlled voice and civilised words. Q could only hang on and follow Bond’s example, wishing for all the world that he could get out of his uncomfortably wet clothes and drag Bond into bed.

It was perfect.


	13. Chapter 13

The sling was little more than a strap around Bond’s neck and two loops holding his arm at the elbow and wrist. He wrestled free of it and let Q help push his jacket off, though Q took his time, hands running luxuriantly over the leather, and Bond couldn’t help but feel a bit smug that his instinct had steered him right when he’d decided to change out of his suit.

When the leather finally hit the floor, Q flattened his hands against Bond’s chest, the heat of his palms searing through the tight T-shirt. Q’s eyes dropped, following the paths of his fingers; when Bond took a breath, Q went still, watching the shift of muscles under the cotton. Bond barely remembered to keep his right arm still. He reached for Q with his left instead, combing the mess of wet hair back from Q’s forehead, following the curve of his skull to the back. He didn’t even try to resist temptation, making it only a few inches before he twisted the wet strands around his fingers and pulled Q’s head close and to the side.

He ducked and tasted skin, twisting to keep Q’s body from pressing against his abused elbow. To his amusement, Q was actually scruffier than he was for a change. He scraped his teeth over stubble before he bit the edge of Q’s jaw. “Your shower’s big enough for both of us,” he said, licking at rain-cold skin.

“If we must. Though I admit, I’m actually really enjoying the view,” Q said, appreciatively running his hands over Bond’s tight, damp jeans, head still tilted to the side. “Though the effect was more pronounced with the leather.”

“Save it for the carpark after the concert,” Bond answered. Much as Q liked full skin-to-skin contact, some things were impractical in public, and Bond could definitely work around blue jeans and leather jackets.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Q huffed, pressing in. “That’s too much for a man to consider, Bond. You’re going to melt my brain.”

“I’d never do that intentionally,” Bond lied, reluctantly releasing his grasp on Q’s hair. He reached his left hand back over his own shoulder to grab a handful of T-shirt. He pulled, dragging it up and over his head, ungracefully extricating himself from the material. He eased it over his right arm and dropped it. “You’ll need to do the rest, unless you want to be stalled half-dressed for the rest of the night,” he said, giving Q’s shoulder a little push down before his mind supplied him with the distracting image of Q on his knees. He’d chosen the faded jeans for strategic effect, forgetting the tactical disadvantage of just how fucking tight they were. Getting into them had been hell, and he wasn’t willing to wait to get _out_ of them.

Q grinned, sliding his hands down towards Bond’s hips, then lower, as the rest of him started to follow. “It’s worth stalling, to see you in these,” he replied, voice coloured with both amusement and arousal. He wrapped his long, thin fingers around Bond’s left ankle and pushed the denim up over his boot, as high as he could. He leaned forward to nip at his shin just under his kneecap, over a small burn scar Bond had got while on a mission in Bali.

Bond reached down with his left hand, but his fingertips barely brushed Q’s hair. “The rest of the night,” he reminded Q, caught by surprise at how rough his voice had gone. After twelve hours of flying and layovers and the emotional storm he’d suffered at HQ and the hours he’d spent waiting for Q, smoking so he didn’t doze off, his nerves were still strung dangerously tight, a part of him still trapped out in the field, where everyone wanted him dead.

If not for his arm, he might’ve just pulled Q off the carpet, thrown him over the bed, and fucked him until they both lost the ability to think.

Q smiled where his mouth was still pressed to Bond’s skin before tilting his head down towards Bond’s boots. His fingers slid teasingly in between the leather and Bond’s calf, with the barest pressure, before he pulled back out to slide over the silver buckle. “I’ve always had a thing for men in engineer boots,” he said, breath tickling over Bond’s shin. He gently lifted Bond’s leg with one hand as he slowly slid the boot, followed by the sock, off with the other.

“And you doubted I could dress to go out with you,” Bond teased as lightly as he could, though his voice was dangerously strained. This slow, gentle undressing was almost more than he could endure.

Q didn’t bother with a response beyond a quiet hum as he repeated the action with the other boot. He straightened up, reverently running his hands up the back of Bond’s thighs. As soon as he knelt up high enough, Bond’s fingers found his hair again, twisting into the strands without guiding him — not yet, at any rate.

Lithe fingers found their way to Bond’s arse, and Q chuckled as if the very idea that he was allowed to do such a thing as grope him was amusing. Bond pushed back against the touch, thinking a month was far too long to go without this. The woman in Ethiopia — Makeda? — had been interesting, but far more concerned with impressing Bond enough for him to help get her out of the country. A quick, anonymous fuck held no interest for him anymore — not when he could have this instead.

Q rewarded the responsiveness with more fond caresses, bringing his head up to nip at Bond’s hip through his wet jeans. Then his hands finally slid around front towards the buttons. He leaned back and smiled up at Bond. “My fingers are still numbingly cold, so this might take a little bit longer than usual.”

Any other night, Bond would have been fine with taking as long as Q wanted. Now, though, he twisted his hand and pulled. Startled, Q fought up to his feet, eyes gone wide. Bond let go of Q’s hair and raked his hand down Q’s chest, pulling at the cardigan that was still buttoned closed. None of those buttons ripped free as the knitted wool fell open; Bond tried harder with the ones on the shirt underneath.

“Or not,” Q added breathlessly, catching the hint. He pulled his hands away from Bond’s jeans long enough to rip the cardigan over his head, not bothering with the buttons. “Though I wasn’t kidding about my hands being cold.” He struggled with the buttons of his undershirt, trying to work as quickly as he could under Bond's impatient gaze.

Before the last button was completely undone, Bond shoved the cloth over Q’s shoulders. “Shoes,” he said, leaving Q to wrestle free of his shirt cuffs. As if to complicate Bond’s life further, Q was wearing a belt. Q gasped when Bond tightened the belt so he could work the tongue over the prong. He left it in the loops as he went for the fastenings, threatening, “If you don’t want these trousers ripped...”

Q laughed, pushing Bond’s hands away. “I’m sensing some impatience here,” he snickered as he shakily undid the flies, shoving them down before remembering his shoes were still in the way. “Damn it. See how my usual careful planning about socks and shoes is actually a time saver?” He looked absurd, hopping in an effort to shake his shoes loose and bending to pull the socks off so he could rid himself of his trousers.

Bond was tempted to do something stupid, like pick him up and throw him on the bed, but he wanted to spend the night — and possibly tomorrow — crawling as deep into Q’s skin as he could, rather than at A&E. Before the temptation could get out of hand, he left the bedroom for the bathroom. He turned on the shower, listening; he heard one shoe hit the floor, followed by the second. Q was quick to follow him to the bathroom, finally, blissfully naked.

“As much as I enjoy the sight of —”

As soon as Q was in reach, Bond cut him off, pulling him into another demanding kiss. He kicked the bathroom door closed to trap the steam billowing over the shower wall. Q hadn’t put on an ounce of weight over the last month; Bond counted the vertebrae with his fingertips, from nape to tailbone, before pulling Q’s hips against him, fingers digging into the tight muscle of his arse.

Q’s hands found their way back to Bond’s waist, this time scratching their way into the space between soaked, tight fabric and damp skin. His fingers were still icy cold. He arched into the feel of Bond’s hands along his bones, groaning happily into the kiss. “Just let me take these off you.”

In answer, Bond gave Q a push towards the shower, crowding behind him. The bright tattoo snaking up Q’s back drew his eye down over the curve of his hip and arse.

Q reached into the shower to turn the tap, holding back for the seconds it took for the water temperature to adjust. Bond took full advantage, wrapping his left arm around the front of Q’s thin body, hand dropping right to his cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Q gasped out, shuddering in a reaction that seemed excessive if Bond weren’t already aware of Q’s incredible sensitivity to touch. His whole body tensed for a moment, hips canting backwards and head dropping lower. “This isn’t going to help my efficiency, you know.”

“You still talk too bloody much,” Bond said, biting the back of Q’s neck.

Q groaned, hips daring to thrust forward into Bond’s grasp. “Fine, I can take a hint and shut up.”

“Then take another and get in the damned shower.”

 

~~~

 

For the first time in Q’s recent memory, his day had gone from terrible to fantastic rather than the other way around, even if it took longer than he would thank the universe for. He almost couldn’t believe the turn of good fortune that would land Bond, nearly naked, incredibly impatient, and in full seduction mode in his own bathroom. The hovering uncertainty of what decisions Mallory and Tanner might be making about him right now still echoed in his thoughts, leaving him to wish things could go a little slower, but he wasn’t going to complain.

Q didn’t waste any time getting into the shower, though it took willpower to separate himself from Bond’s extremely talented hand. Whatever hesitation he might have had about allowing himself to stray out of arm’s reach was soothed by the notion that soon he was going to have as much skin contact as he wanted with someone who knew exactly how much he needed it.

He stepped carefully into the soothing wet heat of the shower, letting his hand drag itself along Bond’s arm, reluctant to let him go for the time it would take Bond to pull his absurdly tight, absurdly flattering jeans off. Much to his surprise, however, Bond followed immediately, crowding against Q’s now-hot skin. The denim, already soaked on one side from the rain, turned dark blue in streaks from the shower.

He didn’t stop until Q was turned sideways to the spray of water, shoulders pressed back against the cold tile wall. Bond kept his injured right arm folded tight against his body; his left, he braced on the tile over Q’s shoulder so he could get at Q’s throat again.

Whatever Q was going to say about denim in the shower was lost in the rush of so many sensations. The water, the heat, Bond’s mouth, the press of Bond’s injured arm against his chest — it all overwhelmed him briefly, and he closed his eyes in order to give himself a chance to process so he could properly catalog and focus. He opened his eyes again as Bond’s bites moved towards his collarbone, allowing Q to finally glimpse his bare back for the first time tonight. A remarkable array of cuts and bruises in various stages of healing decorated his skin, and Q couldn’t help but reach out and trace some of them.

Bond’s shoulders flexed. He lowered his hand to Q’s shoulder, pinning him against the wall, and ducked to bite along his collarbone. Every time Q flinched or squirmed, Bond’s hand pressed harder, dropping to follow the path of bites down Q’s body, until Q struggled to breathe and Bond was on his knees, feet pressed against the bottom of the shower door.

Bond closed his mouth over Q’s cock without warning, licking as he dragged his head back and down again, taking Q deeper than expected.

Q’s complete collapse over Bond was just barely held off by Bond’s strong hand holding him against the tiles. It had been a very, very long time since Q had been the recipient of this particular brand of mind-shattering pleasure. He curled forward just enough to protect Bond from the shower’s spray, and watched, fingers scratching into Bond’s back without regard for the damage already inflicted there.

A month ago, Bond’s intensity had been balanced by his playful, teasing side. Now, Bond’s mouth and hand were demanding, claiming every hitch of breath and groan torn from Q’s throat in a fast, hard build-up. He knelt closer, knees pressed against Q’s feet, and changed the angle to swallow around Q’s cock, breath huffing out through his nose. His palm crushed against Q’s ribs, making him gasp for every breath.

Q felt he should warn Bond, tell him to stop; already, he was too close. “Oh god, Bond, you should slow down, you know I —”

Bond’s hand pressed the last quarter inch, driving the breath from Q’s lungs. He felt more than heard Bond’s insistent growl as, instead of backing off, Bond worked his tongue harder.

Fuck chivalry. Q brought his hands down to Bond’s hair, daring to pull just slightly. In response, Bond scraped blunt nails over Q’s legs and sucked, and Q came with a nearly breathless cry, vision blacking out. Bond didn’t stop until Q was trembling unsteadily, fingers clutching at Bond’s wet hair.

As soon as Bond backed off, Q dragged in a breath that left him with the dizzy rush he hadn’t felt for ten years, since he’d replaced drugs with the much more cerebral high of full-time hacking.

He slid down to the tiles, eye-level with Bond, though he couldn’t quite manage the muscle coordination to do much more than slump against the wall in front of him. “Jesus Christ, Bond. Even amyl nitrate while on E has _nothing_ on you.”

He brought his still-shaking hands to Bond’s shoulders and met his eyes, realising only then that he was still wearing his glasses. The drops of water on the lenses distorted his vision, but not enough to obscure the way Bond was staring at him as if nothing else in the world existed for him, as if studying every millimetre of Q’s body, memorising every breath and twitch of muscles. It was slightly unnerving, reminding Q of how Bond probably looked when he was on the hunt for a target.

“Uh, that was a compliment.”

He once again found himself in the position of having been thoroughly taken apart by Bond, and his last experience left him no idea what the right way to proceed was. He desperately wanted to ask Bond what to do next, but was too afraid of being told ‘nothing.’ So he waited, staring into Bond’s eyes. They’d gone pure black save for thin, icy rings.

Bond lifted his hand, never looking away from Q’s eyes as he dragged wet fingertips up Q’s chest to the base of his throat. The pressure increased slowly as his fingers moved slightly to the side, finding his pulse, pressing just hard enough that Q could feel his own heartbeat under his jaw. Bond’s thumb slid across, pressing up to lift Q’s face.

Then he leaned in, teeth closing over Q’s mouth before he licked his way inside, hand tightening in a way that felt unconscious, as if Bond were operating purely on desire and instinct.

Possible reactions and probable outcomes raced through Q’s mind as he realized Bond was, for the first time in their encounters, running not on seduction techniques but post-mission neurochemicals. Should Q attempt to take off Bond’s jeans? Should he lay back in classic submission? Should he get on his hands and knees and allow Bond to take him, despite the distaste he would experience at feeling wet denim, instead of skin, pressing into the backs of his thighs? Any of that would require that he either try and separate his throat from Bond’s hand (an unwelcome idea), or attempt to maneuver him (a probably unwise idea). So, he chose the best course of action available to him in this particular moment; he leaned forward for another kiss, pushing into Bond’s unyielding hand.

Bond’s fingers tightened even more as he took control of the kiss, exploring every inch of Q’s mouth with hard, demanding sweeps of his tongue. Q’s breath stuttered, caught against Bond’s throat, and he could feel his pulse pounding against strong fingertips. Under Q’s hands, Bond’s muscles tensed, and he moved closer, knees pushing between Q’s legs, forcing their bodies so close that Q had to pull himself up onto Bond’s lap.

Bond moved his right arm out of the way, pulling Q’s chest against his own. His hand rested lightly on Q’s leg. His left hand eased its relentless pressure, allowing Q to gasp in a breath that left him dizzy before Bond’s lips were on him again. Bond’s hand slid around to the back of his neck, trapping him in the unending kiss.

There was nothing left in Q’s mind but Bond — all thoughts of Tanner and M, of the wreck that was this morning, of being worried about appropriate actions and reactions, hell, even the brief concern he’d had a moment ago about the water going cold all fled. Q wrapped his legs around Bond, pressing himself in every physically possible way into Bond’s hard body, wet denim, and teeth. He could pull back only for a tiny distance, a tiny moment, to catch his breath before Bond demanded, with sharp bites and hard fingers, that he stop wasting time on breathing.

Finally, though, Q decided the time to be a passive recipient was over. “The water’s getting cold. Let’s turn it off and —”

He cut off, startled, when Bond’s arm dropped to below his waist, crushing Q’s body against his chest. Then Bond stood, and Q grabbed his shoulders as Bond lifted him off the floor of the shower. He slammed Q’s shoulders back against the tile and pinned him there, arm trapped between Q’s body and the shower wall.

“I just want to get your bloody jeans off,” he couldn’t help but huff.

Bond bit Q’s shoulder hard, hard enough to bruise, and shifted Q’s body against his, before letting out a hiss of surprised pain. He pushed his hips against Q’s to help support his weight and growled, “Fine,” and then, “Out,” reduced to single-word demands. Carefully, he let Q back down to his feet.

Q was certain it would be undignified to run back to his bed, Bond in tow, but it was a near-miss. He wrenched the water off, hard enough in his haste to rattle the pipes. Despite Bond’s words, he still stood over him predatorily, watching Q’s every movement as his now mercifully warm fingers tore at Bond’s flies. He shoved the jeans down with no grace but plenty of effort, and pushed Bond in encouragement so he’d step out of them and out of the shower.

As soon as Bond was free of the wet, clinging denim, he grabbed Q’s wrist, fingers digging against the bones, and all but dragged him out, scattering water everywhere as he ignored the towels and went right for the bedroom. Q’s thoughts of protesting — wet mattress, wet blankets, wet sheets — faltered and died as he watched the tight muscles move over Bond’s back. None of the cuts had reopened, but the fresher ones were brilliant red against the dark purple and sickly yellow bruising.

When they reached the mattress, Q threw himself down on it and crawled just far enough away to reach for his bedside drawer, exaggerating his movements enough so Bond would know exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t quite reach, so he ended up scooting up the bed further, incredibly pleased that Bond followed even those handful of inches. He took the time to carefully remove his glasses and set them aside before digging through his e-readers, MP3 players, headphones, and cables to find his bottle of lube.

As soon as he had it in hand, Bond was on him, covering Q’s back and legs, pinning him against the mattress. With another faint grunt of protest, Bond moved back just enough to rest his right arm against Q’s lower back. Then he settled back down and bit the back of Q’s neck. His hips pressed over Q’s arse, cock slotted up against his tailbone, and his left hand followed Q’s arm to his wrist, holding tight.

Q’s breath caught, a faint prickle of worry tickling his thoughts. Should he warn Bond, as he had before, to go slow? He closed his eyes, thinking about the many ways Bond had both spoken and acted in ways to prove he wouldn’t hurt Q, but it was difficult to reconcile the charming, well-suited man at Dunhill’s of a month ago to the nearly feral creature pushing at him now. Trust wasn’t exactly something Q could offer easily, but he made his decision, kept his eyes closed, consciously relaxed his body, and gave himself over completely.

The moment Q relaxed, the pressure of Bond’s teeth eased. He released the bite to lick a swipe up over his nape, teasing at the ends of his hair. Bond’s voice was a low, quiet growl: “All I could bloody think about in Africa was you.”

Of all the conversations that could have happened in this particular moment, Q wasn’t ready for this one. Honestly, for a radical change, he didn’t want to talk at all. “Oh?” he asked softly, careful not to let any tension creep back into his muscles.

Bond’s answer might have been assent, or it might have just been an exhale. He arched his back, hips pressing down again, and nipped, sharp but quick, at Q’s skin. Then he inched down, just enough that his cock slipped between Q’s legs, and bit at the edge of his shoulderblade where it pressed against his skin.

Faintly relieved at Bond’s lapse back into the nonverbal, Q pressed back, fingers digging into duvet. Bond let go of Q’s wrist to brace against the mattress as he moved further down, knees pushing Q’s legs open.

“Up,” Bond growled, teeth scraping over the small of Q’s back, following the curve of his spine.

Q wasn’t interested in playing at submission. He needed to be in control at least a little; even if Bond had never hurt him, something inside Q couldn’t _trust_ so easily. He knew precisely what he would and wouldn’t allow, and until tonight, he’d been confident that Bond would respect those limits.

Now, though, a different sort of confidence took hold as he realised Bond didn’t want submission; he wanted _compliance_. As soon as Q gave in, Bond’s demanding, feral edge softened into something just as intense but not so intimidating.

Having his eyes closed offered Q a new perspective he hadn’t considered before, one that he knew would prove a perfect tool tonight. He blocked out his usual calculations, his usual response cataloging, his typically _logical_ approach to everything and focused on feeling. Not his, exactly — he focused on where Bond’s hands were, where they were heading, what kind of pressure he was using. Having already come in the shower gave him more awareness that he’d been able to provide before; he focused his attention entirely on anticipating what Bond wanted and providing it before Bond had to use rough handling or demands to ask.

At the first hint of pressure, he raised up on his knees. Another soft touch just under his shoulder, and he folded his arms, shivering as he laid his head and chest back down on the disarrayed pillows. When Bond’s hand curved around his inner thigh, pulling his legs further apart, he bit his lip. The lubricant was in his hand, possibly forgotten.

Then he felt breath over his arse, and the heat of Bond’s mouth followed, at first a soft touch that turned into a hard press of his tongue, following the curve of his arse down towards his entrance.

Q tried desperately not to tense — he’d done so well up until this point — but this was a brand new experience for him. Overbearing lovers in his youth and a handful of one-night stands over the last decade hadn’t bothered. He wasn’t nervous; he just had no idea what to expect.

The hot, wet touch was like nothing he could have imagined, and Q couldn’t stop his flinch in surprise as nerves woke to the new sensation. Bond’s hand went from his thigh to his hip, fingers curving around Q’s hipbone, holding him still for another lick. This time, Q held still by locking his muscles tight and burying his face in the pillows, forgetting to breathe.

With a low, intense sound of satisfaction, Bond licked again more slowly, this time starting just behind Q’s balls, dragging his tongue all the way up to the base of Q’s spine.

It was absolutely _incredible_. Q’s certainty that pushing back into the sensation would be bad etiquette was the only thing keeping him still. He wanted to writhe in pure unmitigated pleasure, but that would risk dislodging Bond, and it wasn’t worth it. Instead, his left hand released his death grip on the duvet and slid down to cover Bond’s where it rested on his hip, squeezing in thanks and encouragement. He hoped that, coupled with breathy moans of genuine appreciation, were adequate to convince Bond of how much he was enjoying this.

If that didn’t persuade him, the fact that he was unexpectedly, but inarguably, getting hard again would certainly do it. Q wasn’t an exceptionally sexual creature — he considered himself more of a sensualist than anything — so the tug of pleasure in his stomach and balls surprised him. He hadn’t experienced anything like it since he was a teenager. He made a mental note to tell Bond how incredible he was, when he was able to breathe again.

Bond didn’t give him the chance. He licked and pushed with his tongue as though meticulously tracking every single nerve ending for individual attention, never stopping, never pausing, until Q couldn’t hold still. It was almost overwhelming without actually being enough, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to push back or pull away or just shamelessly beg Bond to fuck him already, because he knew Bond wasn’t going to stop. He compromised with himself by offering a tiny, whispered, “ _Please._ ”

In response, Bond pushed his tongue harder against muscles that he’d tortured into relaxing, opening Q up just enough to find new nerves, new sensations to steal his breath all over again. Q tightened his grip on Bond’s hand, not caring that he might very well be cutting half-moon imprints into Bond’s skin with his nails. Much to his own surprise, his whole body started to tremble in anticipation, and he shoved his forehead back into the pillow in an effort to keep quiet and enjoy this for as long as he could. He could feel a choked cry well up somewhere within him, but struggled against it, holding back for seconds or minutes — if that long. Bond’s fingers separated, trapping Q’s, as he pulled his tongue back and pushed in again, finding a new spot to lick every time, new pressure that Q couldn’t anticipate.

This perfect anguish of his nerves being set on fire was completely breaking him down. He wanted to find his center — mathematical formulas would have worked, but he couldn’t even remember something simple, like the first hundred decimal places of pi. He couldn’t catch his breath long enough to beg for mercy, so he finally let the sob escape him.

Bond’s exhale was sharp and hot over oversensitive skin. He pulled his hand free of Q’s, ignoring the way Q’s nails dug in and tried to hang on, and moved away with one last hard swipe of his tongue.

The sudden absence of Bond’s touch was too much. Q twisted around and grabbed at Bond’s shoulders, trying to pull Bond down over him and to crawl up on top of Bond at the same time.

Bond held him, lifting up just enough that he could shift position. He dropped ungracefully onto his back, pulling Q down on top of him.

Q suddenly remembered that he still had the bottle of lube clutched in his sweaty hand, fingers tingling with how hard he was gripping it. He stared down at it for a brief, almost blank moment before rushing to uncap it, sliding backwards far enough to finally see Bond’s cock, impressively hard where it stood out from Bond’s blonde hair. The sight was too delicious to pass up, and Q decided he could spare a brief moment from his own eagerness to repay the teasing. He ducked down to lick and suck, but Bond allowed it only for a moment before he caught at Q’s hair, fingers painfully tight, and growled out, “Q,” in warning.

He ignored the warning for one last handful of seconds, allowing Bond to slide in as deeply into Q’s throat as was presently possible, thinking he would need to retrain that gag reflex after all. When Bond growled out a soft, “Fuck,” Q pulled back, feeling as though he’d regained some of the ground he’d lost.

He poured some lube into his hands, rubbing them together to warm it up, before coating Bond’s cock with it. Bond tensed and thrust up into Q’s hand, eyes closing for a few seconds. When they opened, his pupils were immense, with only the thinnest edge of cold blue showing. Q was mesmerised for a moment by Bond’s gaze, held in place by the barely-controlled desire he saw there. He knew the only thing keeping Bond on his back was the condition of his arm; otherwise, he probably would already have been inside Q, taking him.

Q wasn’t exactly used to being on this end of that sort of need; he was much more used to being _too_ something for his partners: too skinny, too smart, too vocal, too scarred, too colourful. But, god, he could get used to this — feeling like he was the only thing that mattered to Bond in this moment.

The thought settled him just enough to bring his movements down from frantic to simply eager. He positioned himself carefully above Bond’s cock, using one hand to steady himself and the other to steady Bond. Bond’s earlier ministrations were surprisingly effective — Q met only slight resistance as he settled in place, sinking down with excruciating slowness.

Bond exhaled, some of the tension bleeding from his body. He finally dropped his gaze from Q’s face, tracking slowly down his chest and abdomen, then just as slowly moving back up. Then, deliberately, he tensed and rolled his hips, pushing up just enough for Q to feel the shift of his cock deep inside.

“Move, Q,” he demanded roughly.

Q reflexively opened his mouth to make some snarky remark, but the look in Bond’s eyes stopped him just in time. He bit his lip, grinned, and did as he was asked. He started slowly, moving up and down in careful movements that allowed him to adjust. It didn’t take long for his impatience to win out, however, and soon he found himself leaning over Bond, his weight resting on his arms, held up only just far enough not to jostle Bond’s injured arm.

Now _this_ he was good at, and he could have drawn it out for hours, gently rolling his hips, carefully sliding up and down, teasing with slow circulating motions. But neither of them were in the mood for that tonight, and he didn’t really want to risk Bond’s taking over, which would land him back in Medical for aggravating his arm. He settled on quick snaps of his hips interspersed with hard lifting and sinking movements. Bond threw back his head, breathing deep, and thrust up into Q to meet him.

Then, as Q was losing himself to the rhythm, Bond pushed up hard, heels digging into the bed, and wrapped his left hand around Q’s cock. “Come for me,” he ordered.

That certainly didn’t seem fair, but Q wasn’t about to argue. He was absolutely certain that tonight Bond wouldn’t leave his own pleasure unattended to, and the realization freed him up to do as Bond commanded. He sped up the movements of his hips and leaned down, meeting Bond’s eyes as he ducked in for a kiss.

Physically, it was awkward, having both of Bond’s arms trapped between them while keeping his mostly-steady rhythm going, but Bond’s kiss was exactly what he needed — the last, perfect point of contact. For the second time tonight, Q came with a gasp, eyes slamming shut, body shuddering in relief.

For one moment, as the first tremors hit, everything was still and silent. Then Bond snarled and thrust up into Q, driving the breath from his lungs, pushing his body and mind into overload. Bond worked Q’s cock, wringing every last spark of pleasure from his nerves until it nearly became too much. When Q made some small sound of protest that managed to also be a plea for more, Bond let go, only to pull Q down to his lips for another demanding kiss. His hips never stopped moving until his body went rigid with sudden tension. His abrupt moan cut off as his teeth sank into Q’s lip. All too aware of the cock buried deep inside him, Q felt every tremor that passed through Bond and into Q like the completion of an electrical circuit.

“My god,” Q breathed after Bond released his lip and his body relaxed. Q leaned back carefully, getting himself into a position where he could extract himself from Bond’s limbs without jostling his arm. This time he started to get up without prompting, thinking to fetch a towel from his bathroom.

Bond’s good arm locked around his body, holding him too close, with the mess and his injured arm trapped between their bodies. They were still damp from the shower and now from sweat and more, and Bond didn’t seem to give a damn.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bond told him, hand sliding up Q’s spine with hard pressure as though sealing their bodies together. When his fingers reached Q’s hair, they combed through gently, encouraging Q’s head to rest on his shoulder.

Q chuckled. “Did I mention how bloody good at this you are? We should have cleared this whole distraction issue up weeks ago.”

“You’ll have another chance to appreciate it in an hour,” Bond said quietly.

Q smiled, the corner of his mouth drawing a half moon on Bond’s shoulder. “‘Appreciate’ is an understatement, but I can’t think of a better word at the moment. I think you broke me.”

“Not yet, I haven’t.” Despite the ominous words, Bond’s touch was gentle, almost soothing. “By tomorrow morning, you won’t remember your own damn name.”


	14. Chapter 14

_By tomorrow morning._ Q’s smile faded slightly. He didn’t really want to think about it right now, wrapped around Bond after the best sex of his life, but he had left MI6 on a very ambiguous note this evening. _Keep me or kill me_ , he’d told them, and his deadline for their decision was approaching.

“You don’t think Tanner will really try to get rid of me in the morning, do you? I haven’t actually done anything to make them question my loyalty to the agency.”

Bond lifted his head and pressed a kiss to Q’s damp, wrecked hair. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. Has your water heater recharged yet?”

Most of Q agreed with Bond’s assessment, but on the slim chance they were wrong... “Probably,” he answered instead. “Though I’d give it another fifteen minutes just to be safe. It’s old and temperamental.”

“You don’t take taxis, do you?” Bond grumbled. He shifted slowly, taking more care not to dump Q off his body than he did with his own injured arm.

Q let himself be shifted, but didn’t let go. “Not a chance. Why?”

“My flat has on-demand water heating. We could sleep in the shower if we wanted.” Bond slid his leg over Q’s and pushed up on his left elbow just enough to look down, studying Q’s face. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Q shrugged. “No sense in worrying about it.”

Bond didn’t respond, and the silence stretched out. Tension crawled up Q’s spine and into his shoulders until he lifted his head again to meet Bond’s incredulous stare.

“Right,” Bond finally said, and sat up abruptly. He shoved his left hand into the mess of blankets and dragged them up over Q. Then he rolled over and kicked his legs over the edge of the bed so he could stand.

Q rolled his eyes and kicked the covers back off. He snagged Bond in an embrace before he could get off the bed to do something stupid — by now, he was learning Bond’s thought process. He wrapped his arms tightly around Bond’s chest, careful to avoid any pressure on his right arm.

“Whatever you’re about to say or do, just don’t.” He knew Bond would be able to feel how quickly his heart was beating from where it was pressed against his back, but didn’t lean away. “At least this way, if they decide in my favour — which they probably will — they won’t wonder if your pushing, rather than logic, was the deciding factor.”

“Christ. You really did talk to them.” Bond looked up at the ceiling and took a deep, slow breath. “I told Tanner about us. He’s seen the fallout of this sort of thing before — just never from a branch lead.”

“What did you tell them?” Q didn’t relax, trying to bring his sex-addled brain back online. He was sure Bond would have told a story that put Bond himself in the worst light, and Q in the best. Q suspected that Tanner wouldn’t buy it, and even if he did, it wouldn’t have impacted his decision.

“I told him I fucked you,” Bond said with a slight shrug. His hand came up to wrap around Q’s forearms. “I told him that’s why I took the Johannesburg mission, and that I didn’t want to deal with you first so I left without saying anything. It explains your behaviour over the past month.”

“For god’s sake. I’m Q Branch. Head of the geeks. Why do they care if I’m unsociable?” Q let his head fall with a light thump on Bond’s shoulder. “What did Tanner say to your little confession?”

“That I should stop thinking with my prick.” Bond snorted. “What do you _think_ he said? I told him if it’s you or me, they’d bloody well transfer or fire me, because they wouldn’t keep me if they got rid of you instead.”

“You really are an idiot,” Q said affectionately. “All right, then. If you know them so well, why haven’t they told me their decision yet? Or are they really as sadistic as everyone thinks they are?”

“Well, yes, but it’s probably because Tanner has a wife and two children, and Mallory’s busy drinking himself to death the way he does most nights since taking over.” Bond twisted to sit sideways, eyes flicking up to Q’s hair. His hand followed, smoothing it back away from Q’s face. “I’ll deal with it, Q. They know which of us is more valuable. And you and I both know there’s no one who could effectively take your place.”

Q stared at Bond’s shoulder, in the back of his mind blaming the frankly amazing sex for how long it was taking him to process this. Not only was he learning Bond’s thought processes; he was learning how to interpret the rich subtext Bond hid under blunt language and a cocky attitude. And what he thought he heard now lodged his heart in his throat. Bond _loved_ MI6, and he was willing to throw away everything, just for Q.

When he could finally speak, he tried for a serious tone and said, “All right, Bond. I’m going to ask you a very serious question, and I expect a very thoughtful, honest answer. Can you do that for me?”

“I’m trained not to, even under adverse conditions. If you wait till I get a bloody codeine into me, you might have a better chance.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Q said, gently unwrapping one arm to turn Bond’s head so he could meet his gaze. “Did you wait to tell me this just so you could get some fantastic, soul-shattering, life-affirming sex out of me?”

Bond looked away, hiding his expression, and Q knew he was right. He ducked his head to hide his grin, only to let out a startled yelp when Bond wrapped his good arm around Q’s waist and stood, dragging Q off the bed. Startled, Q got his feet under himself, though Bond probably could’ve carried him without effort.

“Right inside pocket,” Bond said gruffly, walking Q over to the leather jacket puddled on the floor. “And I didn’t have to tell you a fucking thing just to get more sex. I’m not even close to done with you tonight. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for more.”

Q laughed with genuine delight, so _relieved_ about everything that he reached down to lovingly gather the jacket in his arms without complaint. It was heavier than he expected; he looked down, searching the pockets, and found a very non-standard pocket built into the left front panel, one containing a non-regulation gun.

“The _other_ right pocket,” Bond said dryly, holding out his hand. “Or you can just shoot me, if you’d rather.”

The feel of the grip against his fingertips was as sobering as a bucket of ice water. “Don’t tempt me,” Q said, wondering if this was the weapon Bond had planned to use to kill him. He pulled it out of the pocket just enough to identify the make and model: SIG Sauer P250 9mm.

“Q —”

“It’s a nice gun, I suppose, though a bit primitive. If you plan on keeping it, I may feel generous enough in the morning to suggest some modifications.” Q switched his search from the left pocket to the right. He reminded himself that this might have started as business for Bond, but it quickly became more than that. He tried to push the bleak mood aside as he gave Bond a sly smile and added, “How generous depends on you, really.”

“That gun doesn’t exist,” Bond warned quietly. “M doesn’t need to know everything, despite what he may tell you.”

Q found the prescription bottle and looked at it. A piece of paper was sellotaped around a plastic bottle that looked to have once held aspirin; the writing on the paper was Arabic. “Oh, this doesn’t inspire concern at all,” he said, draping the jacket on a chair before he walked out of the bedroom.

Bond followed him down the hallway. “I’m not dead yet,” he pointed out, going across to the living room rather than into the kitchen. Thoughtfully he added, “Again.”

Q set the suspect bottle down on the counter. He took a fresh glass from the cupboard and went to fill it from the tap. “At this point, I’m certain that it would take a lot more than a dubious African prescription to take you out.” He cocked his head as he offered Bond the water. “What _would_ it take, I wonder? An act of god? An elephant gun? A satanic ritual?”

Disdaining the water, Bond used his glass of scotch from earlier to wash down two pills. “This time it was lions and a tank, but the tank was my idea.” He turned to the bottle of scotch and went to refill the glass, adding, “I can call M now, if you’d feel better. Or I can just go over there. He loves surprise guests.”

Q narrowed his eyes at Bond’s madcap choice of a codeine-chaser. “I’m fine. Besides, if you’re not rendered completely unconscious by that reckless cocktail of yours, I seem to remember you’ve already made plans for the evening.”

“You’re not going to worry about M and Tanner all night?” Bond challenged. Perhaps Q’s glare had an effect; he didn’t pour as generously as he might have done.

Q didn’t want to reawaken the maudlin nature of their earlier conversation, but he needed to say _something_. “If I bring up a contingency request, you have to promise not to assume it means I’m worrying. I’m not. In fact, this will be removing my last worry.” He met Bond’s eyes again, trying to impart the seriousness of his request.

Bond took a sip of his drink before setting the glass down on the countertop. “What is it?” he asked, his voice absolutely neutral.

Q glared. “I’m getting much better at spotting your evasions, you know.”

“Good. You’re learning. Otherwise, the Double O agents will eat you alive,” Bond said, smirking. He picked up his glass, caught the way Q glared disapprovingly at it, and sighed — but he put it back down without comment. Instead, he took hold of Q’s arm and headed out of the kitchen. “To paraphrase a pain in the arse quartermaster I know, I’m not agreeing to anything blindly, so you can either explain it now or while I’m fucking you in the shower.”

Q groaned with impatience but allowed himself to be led. “I don’t really own much of value — there is some decent technology in here, but as long as MI6 erases the hard drives, it can be donated. Nearly everything I own can be donated or thrown away, actually.” He stopped in the hallway to get a stack of fresh towels from the cupboard before continuing down the hall to the bathroom.

“I swear to god, Q, if you make me executor of your will, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Don’t be an arse, that’s not what I’m saying.” Q pulled the towel off the rack in the bathroom and dropped it on the floor to absorb some of the water they’d tracked earlier. He set the rest of the towels in a stack on the counter, and leaned in the shower stall to turn the water back on.

Bond walked out of the bathroom, returning a moment later with the lubricant, apparently serious about his threatened method of distraction. “Then what?” he asked, setting the bottle on the back of the toilet, in reach of the shower.

“I don’t own anything of sentimental value, either —  at least, not sentimental to anyone else. I do have a photo album, but everyone in it is...” Q kept his gaze averted, shaking his hand in the water as if testing for temperature. “Matt French’s brother Sam might be alive, but I don’t think you need to worry about tracking him down.”

Something in Bond’s eyes went sharp. The change was quick — too quick, sending alarms shivering over Q’s skin, reminding him that there was nothing tame or even safe about Bond. In a disturbingly bland voice, Bond asked, “Who are Matt French and Sam?”

For a brief, giddy moment, Q couldn’t decide whether he was glad Matt was already dead, or if he wished he wasn’t just so Bond could have a crack at him. “I only met Sam once or twice, when he’d come by to try to convince his brother the error of his wicked ways.” He smirked at the memory of the clean-cut boy in their damp and dark ‘home’, but amusement faded quickly. “Matt was, uh...” Boyfriend? Employer? Dealer? None of them seemed to cover it.

Bond stared at him so intently that Q could believe he was sifting through each individual thought and memory. “What did Sam do to you?”

“Matt was the one who got me my tattoo, actually. Anyway —”

“Who ‘got you your tattoo’?” Bond interrupted.

“It was sort of a present, I think, though it’s a little hazy. A lot hazy, actually. I’d just stolen thousands of pounds from a bank using a genius of a worm program, and we went out to celebrate. I woke up three days later with a tattoo.” He pulled his hand out of the water and smiled at Bond.

Bond looked down at Q’s body, then back up at his face. “What else was done to you?”

Q snorted self-deprecatingly. “Well, I spent most of my life running away from arseholes in the foster system and running with juvenile delinquents looking for a good time. What _didn’t_ we do is probably an easier question to answer.” He looked up at Bond, eyes narrowing as he took in the deadly edge that hadn’t yet left Bond’s expression. “It’s nothing to get worked up about, Bond. Everyone else is dead. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Bond stared at him as though searching for any hint he was lying. Then, slowly, he exhaled and gave Q a push towards the shower.

“So, what I’m trying to say, is that even though it looks like someone might want the photos in that album, don’t waste any time trying to figure it out. You could just throw it away. Not that it will come to that,” Q finished reassuringly, “because Tanner isn’t going to make the wrong choice.”

Bond followed him in and closed the door a bit too firmly. “Why do you still have the photos, then?” he asked in that same tone.

“Just because life mostly sucked doesn’t mean that it was _all_ bad. Besides, looking at their faces from back then, knowing what happened to them later, is a very sobering reminder of how it could have been for me if not for M and Q.”

Bond turned Q to face the water and wrapped his left arm around Q’s waist. “When Eve shot me, they cleaned out my flat. I knew it would happen eventually. I have no family. So I long ago got rid of everything I didn’t want the analysts to have. Because I thought that one day, I might want to die and then come back.”

Q pressed back into Bond’s embrace. “You’re saying you got rid of anything sentimental so MI6 wouldn’t believe you capable of sentiment?”

“Sentimental?” Bond laughed sharply. “I got rid of anything _incriminating_.”

Q chuckled. “Well, I don’t actually care what people would think of me. Maybe them seeing me strung out, living in subterranean London with a bunch of teenage hoodlums or cheerfully holding a copy of my arrest warrant for ‘digital vandalism’ would actually increase their respect for me.”

Bond’s arm tightened before he stepped back, turning Q around. “Stop living in his shadow,” he said, and for the first time since Q had brought up the tattoo, his voice had softened. “You’re the Quartermaster now — not Major Boothroyd. The agents trust you to bring us back in from the field. If we didn’t, you wouldn’t have lasted in that office for a week.”

Q was standing in the brunt of the shower spray, so it was difficult to meet Bond’s gaze. Instead, he stepped forward and rested his head on Bond’s sternum. “Thanks for that.”

Bond held Q close, resting his cheek against Q’s hair. For a minute, the only sound over the shower was their breathing and Bond’s hand tracing over Q’s spine as though counting his vertebrae, something that seemed to relax him. Or maybe it was just Q.

Then, without any tension remaining in his voice, Bond said, “I assume you can’t drive.”

“I guess you haven’t seen my file after all,” Q chuckled. “I used to occasionally steal cars, actually. Back when I was a fan of using certain substances to keep the calculations at bay. I’m not nearly as good as you, and it’s been awhile, but I could if I had to. Why?”

Bond shuddered. “I’m not certain I can trust a car thief with my Aston Martin. We may have to take a taxi to my flat tomorrow after all. I’ve no idea if anyone picked it up at the airport.”

“I don’t do taxis, Bond. It’s probably best to have an agency driver — Wait. Are you inviting me back to your place tomorrow?”

“I’m _taking_ you back to my flat tomorrow. Or today.” Bond’s hand drifted lower as he bent to nudge Q’s wet hair away from his ear so he could bite at the cartilage.

“You don’t like my flat?” Q’s pulse picked up, fingers tightening on Bond’s arm.

“My bed is bigger.” Bond’s hand combed through wet curls, sliding around and down to his thigh. “I actually have more food than computer equipment. I had time to look in your cupboards, so don’t try to lie. Do you live on cold cereal and crisps?”

“And tea. And I’m sure there are some pot noodles here somewhere. I don’t actually spend much time here, Bond.” Q tipped his head up to kiss Bond’s neck. “Your bed is definitely more comfortable than my cot at R&D, though.”

Bond practically purred at the kiss, and he dragged his fingers back up, curling lightly over his balls. “You have four hours to figure out how to get us back to my flat before I make the transportation arrangements for us, Quartermaster.”

“Good thing I like a challenge.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Where is he?” Tanner asked, his voice rising in that overexcited way of his. Q had seen Tanner’s records: He’d survived gunfights, bombings, and a missile that had shot a seventy-foot yacht out from under him, all without blinking. But lock him in a control room where he couldn’t _see_ the action, and his nerves fell to pieces.

“007, report,” Q said calmly for what had to be the fifth time.

Four times, the only answer had been breathing, splashing, and gunfire. This time, though, Bond’s voice crackled through the comms. “Bit busy,” he said breathlessly, and there was one more gunshot. “Less busy now. Q, we need to start carrying more ammunition.”

“You’re a _secret_ agent, not a soldier,” Tanner answered, glaring at the mic on the workstation beside Q. The blue _active connection_ light and red _secure connection_ light combined to turn his face a ghastly, bruised shade.

“I’ll tell _them_ that, shall I?” Bond asked. The comm line crackled violently before a loud hum made both Q and Tanner wince, right before both lights went dark.

Tanner looked at the mic and then up at Q. “This was supposed to be a simple protection mission,” he complained.

“You sent 007 to escort one of the junior members of the Royal Family to a ceremonial meeting in Jerusalem, Tanner. How did you _not_ project this?” Q asked calmly. He was already trying to access the Mossad’s intelligence network, but it might be faster for him to just ask permission, much as it galled him.

He flexed his shoulders, feeling the pull of new skin high up on his back, between his shoulderblades. He needed to go to the privacy of the loo so he could put some lotion on the scabs. The healing skin was still tight.

“I didn’t even know there _were_ sewers in Jerusalem,” Tanner said, pacing around the workstation. “How did he find sewers in Jerusalem?”

It was almost eleven at night local time. Q had sent everyone downstairs home two hours earlier, giving him and Tanner the privacy necessary to run Bond out of Jerusalem, once the bodyguarding mission had turned into an exfiltration — one that would, by Q’s projections, involve a high likelihood of Bond having to hijack a plane.

He spared a moment of sympathy for the young Royal whose posh life probably hadn’t prepared him for the sort of missions James’ tend to devolve into. However, Q decided with a private grin, at least a dramatic rescue would win MI6 some favor with the Royals. He could just imagine the stars in the young man’s eyes as he watched Bond shoot people and blow things up on his behalf.

Then the connection lights flickered back on in time for Bond to say, “... waterproof. Headquarters?”

“Repeat please, 007.” Q asked calmly. The established connection gave him a map reference, enabling him to pull up the quickest route from Bond’s present location to the New Jerusalem Airport.

“The earwig’s not waterproof after repeated submersions,” Bond said unhelpfully.

“Did you get them back?” came an overexcited, familiar voice in the background.

“Oh, thank god,” Tanner breathed, dropping his hands onto the workstation. He hung his head and asked, “Is the asset safe, 007?”

“I’ve been reliably informed that safe is exceedingly boring, sir, and that this is far preferable to — how’d you put it, boy? — some bloody boring conference full of translators —”

“Yes, thank you, Bond,” Q interrupted, all too able to imagine the rest of that sentence.

Perhaps sending Bond to a friendly nation with a rowdy twenty-something Royal had been unwise after all. If only the young man had been less emphatic about insisting Moneypenny be his escort, and that they stop in Paris to get her something suitably exotic to wear to dinner. His too-obvious interest in her had been the reason M had instead given the assignment to Bond — too old, too rough-edged, and definitely too male for the Royal’s tastes.

He turned his attention back to the mission. He couldn’t reliably pinpointing Bond’s location. “007, you need to get aboveground,” he advised.

“That can be arranged. I think there aren’t any left alive to come after us,” Bond said agreeably.

Over the next hour, Q and Tanner monitored the progress of Bond and the asset as they cut through buildings and alleys, stole a car, and finally made it to the airport. Bond avoided security by simply crashing the car through a maintenance gate, running over the tire spikes, and then disappearing into the airport on foot while security alerts went off like mad.

Tanner got on the phone, giving Q a murderous glare as if somehow Bond’s behavior was both unexpected and his fault.

Q simply silenced all the airport alarms and then fooled the systems into reporting the alert as a drill. Bond would need clearance to take off, or at least a few minutes’ head start before the Israeli Air Force scrambled whatever brand of fighter jets they preferred.

By the time Bond and the asset had left the plane forty minutes later, moments before a spectacular crash Q caught on satellite, Tanner was already soothing ruffled feathers and feeding intel to the Mossad about the terrorists’ attempted hit. Impassively, Q watched on satellite as the airplane — nothing more than a tiny dot — headed straight down towards the Mediterranean. A single parachute had disengaged from the plane two seconds earlier, and Q imagined that Bond was carrying the Royal.

Absently, Q recalculated Bond’s most likely arrival time back in London. He could probably pull some substantial strings to expedite their transport, given that Bond wasn’t to leave the asset’s side until they were back on British soil.

He resisted the temptation to reach over his shoulder and feel the scabs on his back. Accelerating the mission timeline meant Bond would be home before Q was fully healed, but he’d rather have Bond with him than have a surprise go according to plan any day.

“You are sending someone to pick them up, aren’t you?” a new voice asked.

Tanner and Q both twisted around, startled. M stood just inside the office, eyes fixed on the overhead monitor mirroring the display on Q’s laptop.

“I’m in the process of identifying the closest friendlies to their location right now,” Q said, turning back to his display. He scrolled through the possibilities as he listened to M’s movements behind him. Royal Navy? An ally’s navy? Hell, if Q could bribe a local fisherman, he would.

Then again, knowing Bond, he’d probably manage to find some hundred-foot yacht based out of Greece belonging to some rich, bored heiress.

“Mmm. Do let me know how you’re going handle damage control with the asset’s parents, Tanner,” M said coolly. “I understand his aunt is somewhat formidable. She may demand an in-person report, and you two are the ones with the most relevant knowledge.”

Q hid a small smile as he pulled up Royal Navy authorization commands. The _HMS Illustrious_ was in the Mediterranean on a training mission. That ought to do it.

Even better, Q recognized the captain’s name as one of Bond’s mates from his time in the Royal Navy. That meant mercifully less cajoling, quicker rescue deployment, and less fuss overall. Just in case M had any ideas, Q added, “I’m sure Tanner would be pleased to handle that aspect of things. I suspect I’ll be too busy erasing airport security footage to have time for it.”

“Very good. Carry on, then,” M said wryly. “And do try to keep Bond from damaging anything critical.”

“Sir,” Tanner acknowledged, giving Q a bleak glare. As soon as the door closed, he accused, “That’s _your_ boyfriend causing all the trouble.”

“Really? So by your logic, if Moneypenny had been the one to accompany the lad, the insider would have been so won over by her charms that they wouldn’t have bothered?” Q didn’t meet Tanner’s gaze — though their truce was a stable one, he didn’t want to tempt fate by allowing some of his latent anger to bleed through.

A month had passed. Q still occasionally had to find excuses not to run into Tanner unless absolutely necessary. He’d even started bribing Moneypenny with concerts and nights out at the pub — surprisingly enjoyable excursions — in exchange for regular information on Tanner’s whereabouts. He wasn’t worried about Tanner changing his mind about Q; he was just more than slightly concerned that he might let his control slip. There were too many tense moments when he just felt like punching the bastard for thinking him a liability.

Somehow, Bond had managed not to carry a grudge at all. Then again, anyone true to MI6 and England got a free pass with Bond. Moneypenny had shot him at the former M’s orders, and after his three-month sulk, Bond had returned with no hard feelings. Part of Q considered that more than a little unhealthy. Then again, Bond carried enough dark emotions after his missions — a thought which distracted him into returning to his calculations. It wouldn’t take long at all for a helicopter to get Bond and his charge off the _Illustrious_ and to the nearest international airport. Having a Royal along would justify the expense of chartering a flight, which could shave up to twelve hours off Bond’s arrival time.

At least Tanner proved willing to help, even going so far as to phone an admiral of his acquaintance to speed up the process while Q went behind proper channels to contact the _Illustrious_ directly.

By local dawn, Bond and the asset were safely in the hands of the Royal Navy. Exhausted, Tanner told Q, “Thank you. We’ve got six months of paperwork, but at least we don’t have a hostage situation.”

Q looked up in surprise. He almost wanted to say ‘ _just doing my job_ ’, but decided he wasn’t enough of an arse to refuse an olive branch when it was extended. “You’re welcome,” he replied honestly.

Tanner nodded and crossed the office tiredly. At the door, he said, “Send me the details of Bond’s arrival, please. And remind him that he can’t pad it out for two days unless he’ll be holding the Royal hostage himself. You two can have your reunion _after_ the briefing.”

Q turned back to his screen with a smirk. “I’ll remind him,” he said, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good whatsoever. Why anyone would think Q could make Bond do anything he didn’t want to do, he didn’t know. 

 

~~~

 

Q dropped his wallet and keycard in the bowl by the front door as he let himself into Bond’s flat. Well, their flat, really. Q was very slowly learning what it was like to have a home, not just a place one retreated to when all other options for entertainment and distraction had been exhausted. He hadn’t formally moved in, but given that he didn’t own much, and most of his clothes and his toothbrush were here, it was essentially the same thing without the painful discussion process. 

Q toed off his shoes and went to the kitchen. He heated water and brewed a cup of tea as he went through the stack of takeaway menus in the drawer beside the fridge. Nothing caught his eye; admittedly, his appetite was always at a low point when Bond was on-mission.

While the tea was steeping, he went to the living room to fetch his Kindle. The front door opened loudly. Startled, he turned and automatically looked to the emergency gun safe built into the desk — a safe that was now programmed to both his fingerprints and Bond’s.

He heard the door slam shut. Over the sound of the locks engaging, Bond called, “Q!”

Q hurried back out to the foyer, unashamed to let a smile of delight colour his features. “You’re back early! I thought you were escorting the asset back home, and would end up trapped there, telling the tale of your adventure.”

Bond threw down his wallet, missing the bowl, and went right for Q. He pushed open the jacket Q was still wearing to get his hands on Q’s shirt. “I didn’t strangle him. I deserve a reward,” he said, speaking into Q’s neck. He inhaled, fingers pressing roughly against cotton to dig into Q’s muscles, tracing his ribs around to his back. “I deserve a bloody medal,” he complained less harshly before he bit.

Knowing it was futile to resist — and not actually wanting to — Q reached up to lick the curve of Bond’s ear, whispering, “I agree, but unfortunately that sort of thing requires paperwork. I can think of much better ways to use my time to reward your gallantry.”

Bond snorted a laugh — his playful moods corresponded to low-kill, low-stress missions, and apparently five kidnappers and an airplane hijacking counted as low-stress. He backed Q against the hallway wall outside the living room, pulling Q’s shirt free of his trousers, and asked, “I haven’t had you on that gaudy display table you like so much, have I?” Deliberately, he pulled Q a step towards the table in question, a tall, narrow piece that matched the hallway and had apparently been the idea of Bond’s interior decorator. If given his way, Bond would chose furniture based solely on its durability for having sex on, in, under, or around.

Q pulled off Bond’s jacket and looked at the delicate table doubtfully, thinking that perhaps such criteria might be a worthwhile calculation to add into furniture selections after all. Most, but not all, of their thus-far tested surfaces had held up, but after the incident with the coffee table, Q was always cautious. “I hate that table, Bond. Are you sure it will —”

Bond didn’t wait. He lifted Q, straining a bit more than he had a month earlier, thanks to insisting Q accompany him to the gym and on his morning runs. Q had put on over a half-stone, all of it muscle. The table creaked alarmingly but held — for now.

The same couldn’t be said of the buttons on Q’s shirt. The rain of plastic scattered at Bond’s feet, and he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the access to Q’s chest. The damage was all part of Bond’s plan, Q knew, but he couldn’t find it in him to complain. Bond had been systematically destroying Q’s wardrobe. Soon he’d have no choice but to go shopping, either on his own (and endure the silently eloquent looks over his budget choices) or with Bond, a process that would probably take four separate fittings.

Of course, the fact that Bond was more than willing to indulge Q in the same way made up for it, given that Bond now spent evenings and weekends in jeans and T-shirts. He’d even pretended to take under advisement Q’s suggestion that he’d look amazing with a facial piercing. M would never permit it, but just the idea was amusing.

Q didn’t wait for Bond to kiss him, pulling him down roughly in retaliation for the brutal mistreatment of his shirt. He was much more careful in his work on Bond’s shirt; once it was off, skin was fair game. Q was pleased to see that Bond’s usual post-mission array of cuts, bruises, and worse was mostly absent. “Look at that,” he murmured appreciatively, before leaning up to suck his own bruise into the skin over Bond’s heart.

Bond’s growl was low and satisfied, and he caught at Q’s hair to hold him. “You took care of anyone expecting us to report to work tomorrow?” he managed to ask, though Q had the immense pleasure of hearing his voice catch.

“I threatened Tanner with a webcam report from here. Wisely, knowing your version of post-mission stress relief, he declined.” He smirked. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re a bad influence?”

“I live to corrupt you,” Bond said with another laugh, going for Q’s belt as he toed off his own shoes. “Nothing I need to worry about? You’ve been safe?” he asked, as Q expected.

Of course, the first time he’d asked, Q had immediately assumed ‘worry’ and ‘safe’ implied that Bond thought Q had cheated on him, which led to Q learning that attempting to have a rational discussion with Bond after a mission was difficult and involved too many cigarettes. But in fact, it was the one thing Bond _didn’t_ ask about — and Q returned the favour. He assumed Bond knew him well enough to know Q wouldn’t cheat for a variety of reasons, Q’s trust issues being no small factor. In turn, Q didn’t want to know about that necessary part of Bond’s job that made exclusivity impossible.

“Not a single suspicious thing. I even got bored while you were gone and upgraded the security on the flat. You’ll be impressed,” Q responded a little breathlessly.

Too focused on stripping Q from the waist-down, Bond didn’t answer. Q was tempted to get rid of his shirt, but instead he pushed up on his hands and lifted his hips so Bond could work his trousers and pants down. The table rattled alarmingly, and Q began calculating the stress of his weight on the decorative table. He considered demanding that they move elsewhere, but Bond stepped on the fabric to pull it the last few inches off his feet and promptly leaned over, licking his way down Q’s body with a little shove so he reclined back against the wall.

From his somewhat elevated position, Q watched, curling his hands into Bond’s hair. “Are you sure you don’t” — Q gasped at the exquisite sensation of Bond’s tongue dipping into his navel — “don’t want to go over them now? I set up a body-heat scanner at the... the...” Q trailed off with a groan, head landing heavily on the wall behind him. After any absence, Q was always afraid that the spark between him and Bond would have faded; it was always a relief that Bond could still help focus Q’s wandering mind.

Playfully, Bond took Q’s cock into his mouth for bare seconds before he stood back up, capturing Q’s protesting groan with a kiss. Then he looked at Q, eyes bright, smirk challenging. “If you can arm the system while I do whatever I want to you, then you can fuck me first.”

Q watched Bond’s expression, calculating his odds of success. “All right,” he said slowly, and leaned in to feint a kiss before ducking out from under Bond’s arms. He dropped off the table and ran into the living room to grab his tablet. He laughed somewhat hysterically as Bond swore, though he knew that he couldn’t have escaped if Bond didn’t want him to. This wasn’t about winning; this was about play, the fun of a challenge that wasn’t life-or-death.

The sofa — now with a quilt thrown over it as extra padding — may have factored into Bond’s decision. Bond was on Q only a second later, tackling him onto the soft cotton blanket. Laughing, Q tried to keep from dropping the tablet as he called up the flat’s security interface, though he ended up opening his email instead when Bond placed a well-timed bite over one nipple. When the tablet chimed an alert, Bond laughed evilly.

It would only take Q seconds to open up the app and type in his password, and Bond was always so much more tactile when he was on top, but Q could concentrate under any circumstances. All part of the job.

A second attempt to open the app, ending with him opening Netflix instead, persuaded him otherwise. He wondered if this game was going to become a habit of Bond’s. If it did, he was going to create an entire home screen dedicated to just the security interface’s icon.

His fingers faltered entirely when Bond repeated his bite on the other nipple. Q growled in frustration and turned over, tucking the tablet under him directly in line of sight. The button-down shirt rucked up under his body, and he shrugged his shoulders to try and ease the pull of the material.

He reached for the appropriate icon, only to have Bond laugh and wrap an arm between Q’s body and the sofa. One strong pull lifted Q’s hips; he got his knees under himself automatically, a perfectly understandable human reflex to prevent falling, only to realise the danger of his position when Bond licked over the curve of his arse.

“You are bloody well not playing fair,” Q ground out, leaning into the touch for a moment. His eyes fell closed before he told himself to refocus. His final attempt at hitting the right icon was a complete success, though his triumphant “Yes!” turned into a groan of ecstasy as Bond’s talented tongue traced the bumps of his lower spine.

The proper menu opened on the tablet. Only four taps to go.

Which was when Bond lifted him further, pushing his legs apart with one hand. Then he licked further down, light and teasing, right over Q’s entrance.

Q shakily slid his hand toward to bottom of the screen to hit ‘1’, and was fairly impressed with himself that he made it on the first try. But he lost his focus again when Bond ended the next lick with a hard press of his tongue, teasing his way inside just enough to make Q forget how to breathe.

It took him three tries to enter backspace and then ‘9’. As much as he wanted to just drop the damn tablet and surrender, he also wanted to win, simply for the sake of winning one of Bond’s silly, ridiculous challenges more than the prize itself.

When Bond’s hand joined the battle, the tablet nearly slipped from Q’s grasp. _Cheating bastard,_ he wanted to say, but speech was definitely beyond him at the moment. Thought, however, wasn’t — and he realised, in one blinding flash of insight, exactly where he’d gone wrong.

Q stopped trying to push aside what Bond was doing to him. Instead, he spread his legs even more, arched his back, and let himself groan in appreciation, because Bond really did deserve his out-of-control ego, at least in this.

Bond’s momentary hesitation betrayed his surprise at what he mistakenly thought was Q’s surrender.

Hiding his grin with the blanket, Q reached down between his own legs, thinking of the phone call they’d had four days earlier. Bond had been in his hotel room, Q alone in their shared bed, and Bond had, in eloquent, almost painful detail explained precisely what he would’ve done to Q had they not been separated by thousands of kilometres.

Then he’d relentlessly demanded that Q take his place, describing every touch, every motion of Q’s hand and fingers — everything he wanted Q to do to himself. He’d left Q almost as thoroughly wrecked as if Bond had been right there beside him, and he was convinced he’d never be able to listen to Bond’s voice growling softly in his ear without turning scarlet with embarrassment. Phone calls from Bond were going to be ridiculously awkward from now on.

Now, as he thought back, he fixed on one thing Bond had said: _I wish I could see you_.

Now, Q curled his fingers around his own cock and started to move. Immediately, heat twisted around his spine, up into his chest and down through his balls. Ridiculously, the cuffs of his shirt were still buttoned, and the sleeve tugged awkwardly as he moved.

He hissed in a gasp, letting himself remember Bond telling him how to touch himself — how Bond would touch him, if they were together. How Bond would _watch_ Q touch himself.

The tongue working at his arsehole withdrew slowly, in stages, as if Bond were trying to remember to focus while distracted by what Q was doing. Q shifted to give Bond a better view and felt the sofa cushions compress. Bond’s fingers took the place of his tongue, idle touches, light and teasing, but _not_ distracting.

Without Bond’s voice commanding the movements of his hand, Q fell into a comfortable haze of familiar pleasure. One-handed, he typed in the commands to arm the system, even remembering to set it to at-home mode, disabling the internal motion sensors, security cameras, and sensors on the windows and balcony door, in case Bond wanted to go out for a smoke.

Before he could put down the tablet and announce his first victory ever, Bond caught him by the hips, lifted, and twisted him onto his back.

Laughing to himself, Q kept his hand moving, slow and light. “Was there something you needed, Bond?”

Bond glared at him, not in anger but in intensity. Then he got a slight, edged smile as he spotted the tablet still in Q’s other hand. “Giving up?”

“I was thinking about that phone call,” Q responded truthfully, staring up at Bond with naked arousal. “Remember what you said?”

Bond inhaled sharply, slowly looking down the expanse of Q’s body. For a moment, Q thought Bond would put off his interest for another time; after returning from any mission, no matter how easy or bad, Bond couldn’t resist throwing himself at Q, as if he were the one who craved skin-to-skin contact like a plant craved sunlight. Even now, staring at Q’s hand, Bond shifted to wrap one arm over Q’s bent knee, hugging his leg close.

And thank god for that, Q thought, closing his eyes happily for a moment. He, by nature, was absolutely not an exhibitionist, and he honestly didn’t know if he would have been able to carry this off without actual physical contact. He rested the tablet on the sofa so he could reach up with his free hand to wrap it around Bond’s. “‘I wish I could see you’, wasn’t it?” he murmured, watching Bond’s expression as he started to mimic, with near-perfect recall, exactly what Bond had told him to do.

Bond’s gaze snapped up, meeting Q’s eyes, as he recognised what Q was doing. His hand tightened, though he made no move to interfere. Instead, he watched, eyes dark and wide, taking in not just the way Q’s hand moved but every detail of his body. Q thought back to that first night, when he’d so adamantly warned Bond off asking any personal questions at all — how nervous he’d been when Bond had first seen his scars. Bond still had never asked, though he’d studied every inch of Q’s body for hours by now, and Q had no reason to be shy.

So, struggling to push aside his natural embarrassment, he pretended he was alone in the bed they shared, Bond’s voice in his ear, pretending that it was Bond’s hand and not his own. He fell easily into the layered fantasy, and faster than he expected, he was approaching the edge.

“Don’t stop,” Bond said, his voice almost a whisper. Q pulled his thoughts to the present, to reality, just as Bond’s hand slipped down to tease over his balls.

The touch was enough that Q couldn’t stop the fires racing up his nerves. Instead of trying, he gave in to his climax, clenching Bond’s hand so tightly that he’d feel it tomorrow if he tried to type. Bond didn’t move either hand; he ducked his head to press a kiss to the fingers that were tangled with his own, though he never stopped watching, until Q finally let his hand fall away.

“Fucking god, Q,” Bond breathed quietly. “You’re bloody perfect.”

Flush with absolute contentment, Q found the tablet and waved it at Bond, nearly dropping it; his fingers didn’t seem to be working properly. “I’ve won.”

Bond rescued him from the tablet. He tapped it and laughed softly. “So you have. But given your current condition, I hope you plan to defer collection for at least a little while.” He leaned over to set the tablet aside on the coffee table. Then, because he was inherently lazy when no one was trying to kill him, he used a corner of the quilt to wipe gently at Q’s body, cleaning up the mess. Q was certain that Danielle had never intended for her present to be used for this purpose, but he said nothing. Bond, damn him, would probably brag to her about it.

“Sounds fair,” Q responded lazily, stretching with a contented grin. “I don’t think this sort of game actually could have a loser.”

Bond shoved Q against the back of the sofa, making just enough room that he could fit beside him. With a shift and a strong pull of Bond’s arm, Q ended up half on top of him.

Q smirked and got comfortable, resting his head in the hollow of Bond’s shoulder. “You and your favorite positions, Bond.”

“I’ll be on top when there’s no longer a need to worry about me breaking you.” Bond’s arms locked around Q, keeping him close. “Every time I leave the country, I worry you won’t even remember to eat, much less actually get on a bloody treadmill.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Q said sternly, though his mouth quirked in a smile. “I managed just fine before you.”

“Which is why I’m _not_ going to stop worrying about you.” Bond’s smile turned sly.

Bond lifted his hips, shifting to one side, and used one arm to rid himself of his trousers and pants. Q took full advantage of the necessary squirming, providing just enough friction to leave Bond gasping by the time he kicked the fabric away.

“Besides, it’s good for our careers. I have incentive to come home from missions now.”

“Hmmm... such a romantic,” Q said without a trace of irony, leaning down to give Bond a very soft, appreciative kiss. “Shall we move this to the bedroom?” he asked after he pulled away.

Bond slid a bare leg against Q’s. “Genius,” he said, reaching up for the lapels of Q’s shirt. He pushed the fabric back and sat up enough to lay a line of bites up Q’s collarbone.

In the excitement of having Bond back in his arms and his little challenge, Q had forgotten his own surprise. In an unusual display of eagerness, he practically jumped off Bond’s lap, even managing to get to his feet somewhat gracefully. He caught Bond’s hand and tried to pull him off the sofa.

Bond’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, though he let Q help him sit up on the couch. “Is there something?”

“Before we move this along, I have a task for you. Meet me in the bedroom,” Q said.

Bond stood, curious. “I thought that was the plan, yes,” he said, eyes dropping below the hem of Q’s now-ruined button-down shirt. His lips turned up in a smirk as he added, “Feel free to lead the way.”

Q shook his head in mock exasperation, then turned and pulled Bond by the hand, adding the slightest sway to his hips just for fun. In the bedroom, he said, “Give me a moment. Pull the duvet off for me?”

“What are you up to?”

“I promise not to keep you in suspense for long.” Q turned Bond towards the bed and gave him a little push. Then he turned and went to the ensuite.

Once in the bathroom, Q pulled down his aftercare skin cream and poured it into the plastic bowl he’d kept on the counter, waiting for this moment. It wouldn’t do for Bond to read the label before he had a chance to discover the surprise on Q’s skin himself.

He walked into the bedroom to find Bond had folded the duvet into a pile at the foot of the bed. Q handed the bowl of lotion to him with a smile, then walked past him to lay down face-first on the bed.

“If you worked for any department but Q Branch, I’d most likely point out that this wouldn’t make a very good lubricant,” Bond said, sounding amused. “Given that you do, I’m not even certain it’s safe to touch. You’re not trying to entice me into my own bed by giving me some new liquid explosive, are you?”

Q hid his chuckle in the pillow he’d buried his face in. He turned his head just enough for his voice not to be obscured by the cotton and murmured, “Take off my shirt, and it will all make sense.”

Bond’s laugh was low and interested. Q heard him set the bowl on the bedside table. Then his hands were at Q’s left wrist, unbuttoning his cuff. “This would be more efficient if you’d brought scissors,” Bond pointed out wryly. “Or if you hadn’t distracted me on the table out there.”

“ _I_ was the one doing the distracting?” Q asked playfully before hissing as Bond’s tug on the shirt grated at his back.

Bond froze at once. All humour disappeared from his voice when he said sharply, “You’re hurt. Bloody hell, Q, why didn’t you tell me?”

Q tried to be annoyed by Bond’s delay, but a curl of pleasure coiled in his brain at the overprotective possessiveness he was prone to. “Just take off the damned shirt,” he murmured. When Bond hesitated, he added a soft, “Please.”

Gently, Bond reached over to undo Q’s right cuff. Then he took hold of the hem of the shirt, lifting it carefully, gathering it towards Q’s shoulders. “I crashed a bloody airplane, and you’re the one —”

He cut off as soon as the shirt was clear of the scabs. After one moment of absolute stillness, he moved the shirt up, dragging it down Q’s raised arms and over his head. He dropped it before it was off, and his hand went right to the unmarked skin below Q’s newest tattoo.

Q had found that once the decision was completely in his control, he actually was delighted in the process of figuring out what sort of art would express what he was feeling. Q was no artist, but it didn’t take long to find one. Rick was not only an award-winning tattoo artist; he had a knack for being able to take his customer’s emotional ramblings and morph them into a piece that was perfectly expressive.

It had taken four conversations, six sketches, and a long discussion of color versus black and grey to come up with the design that had Bond thoroughly captivated.

At its most basic, the image was that of a ‘007’ in a raked font with a sleek, stylized version of the Walther at the end. Advances in tattooing technology had allowed Rick to give it depth and shadow. It appeared to rise off the skin and hover just above his spine between his shoulder blades. The location made the actual needlework painful, so they’d agreed to keep it in greyscale; it would never need to be retouched.

Bond said nothing, and Q found his happy anticipation at Bond’s reaction turning slowly to dread. Had the surprise backfired?

Before the panic threatened to render him mute, Q quickly said, “I know you sometimes have mixed feelings about the wires, and why I have them, so I —”

“You talk too bloody much,” Bond said softly, though his voice was ragged. His fingers pressed against Q’s back, sliding a bare millimetre closer to the tattoo before he stopped himself. “Q...” He finally gave in, though he barely even rested his finger at the very edge, the touch feather-light. “My god, Q...”

Q held his breath. He had calculated the odds of Bond’s approval at upwards of ninety-six percent, given his possessiveness, but the remaining three-point-something percent was still a possibility. Some people felt like such tokens were meant to act as emotional tethers they hadn’t asked for. He kept quiet, waiting.

The mattress shifted. A moment later, he felt Bond slowly, carefully begin to spread a cool layer of lotion over the tattoo. He was absolutely silent but meticulous, gently covering every single inked dot and scab, before he smoothed the lotion into the surrounding skin, soothing the deep itch that had been there since Q had had the design inked.

Then he reached up to gently free Q from the shirt still trapped around his forearms. He threw the shirt aside and stretched out beside Q, forcing an arm under his chest. By now, Q knew Bond’s body language, and he was ready for the way Bond lifted him up and pulled him to the side so he was on top of Bond.

Q looked down with a hesitant smile. “I take it you approve?”

“I can’t decide if I should tell you it’s perfect or yell at you for not warning me not to hurt you,” Bond said very softly. “You — I never even _imagined_...” He faltered and closed his eyes, pulling Q close with a hand on the back of his head and another at the small of his back, careful to not go anywhere near the still-healing tattoo.

Q slumped over Bond slightly in obvious relief. “Well, thank god for that, because the removal process —”

“Idiot genius,” Bond interrupted sharply. “Shut up. God, if you weren’t so bloody _perfect_ , Q...” He trailed off, looking uncomfortably away.

Q waited, ready for whatever playful insult Bond was surely going to follow that up with, but it didn’t come. Bond stayed silent as his fingertips lightly, almost reverently traced the skin between his shoulderblades.

 _Subtext_ , Q thought, lifting his head enough to study Bond’s face.

“Me, too,” he said softly, turning his face back to the pillow. 

Bond’s breath hitched in a way that had nothing to do with passion, for once. Then he shook his head and used the hand in Q’s hair to turn him for a possessive, demanding kiss. “And you’d damned well better have recovered enough to fuck me, because I refuse to have you on your back until that’s completely healed.”

“You know, I don’t think I’m quite up for it at the moment, but I can think of a few lovely things we can do to pass the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter of the main fic!
> 
> We would like say thank you to everyone who subscribed, commented, and hit the kudos button on this crazy minifill-turned-chaptered creation of ours. It means the world to us when people give us feedback, telling us how much they've enjoyed following the characters on their emotional rollercoaster. We promised that we'd rip your hearts out but would give them back - thank you for the trust you all gave us in waiting for the happy ending. <3
> 
> That said, this isn't the end of this universe. We have at least three more installments to go - one absolutely *gorgeous* outtake by by JennyBel75 and two more collaborative one-shots. Stay tuned to the Refraction series to keep apprised of their publication!
> 
> Finally, if you want to see what we're up to, and to keep apprised of updates and spoilers, follow us on our Tumblr accounts. Good news always hits there first! You can find us at bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com and kryptaria.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks again to Jennybel75, Cousincecily, and Snogandagrope, who were our cheerleaders and last-minute betas. We couldn't have done it without you!
> 
> Thanks again, and we hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> <3,
> 
> Kryptaria and BootsnBlossoms

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for The Colours in His Skin by BootsnBlossoms and Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/740262) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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